


Fast Falls the Eventide

by KivrinEngle



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Durin Family Feels, Family, Gen, Memory Loss, dwarf religion, seriously so much angst, steampunk dystopia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 08:38:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 57,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/684984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KivrinEngle/pseuds/KivrinEngle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A thousand years since the Battle of Five Armies, the Dwarves of Middle Earth are a fading race. Subservient to Men, they scarcely remember the legends of Dwarven greatness, or the prayers of their ancestors. </p>
<p>Bilbo Baggins is one of the last Hobbits to leave the Shire, sent on a mission of mercy as Healer to the Dwarves of Erelin. He keeps to his home and dreams of the green places of his youth. </p>
<p>But things are stirring in Erelin, last city of the Dwarves, and a young Dwarf with uncomfortable memories of lives he has never lived is on a desperate hunt for what has been lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. City of Sorrows

**Author's Note:**

> The Fourth Age begins in sunlight and hope - but we know it is the Age of Men. This is a contemplation of how things might have gone for some of the other races of Middle Earth, a thousand years after Thorin fell. It's not going to be a short story, or an undemanding one, but I hope the journey will be worth the cost. 
> 
> If you've read any of my other work, you'll know that I update as frequently as possible, and that I am guilty of committing emotional whiplash, frequent and unkind cliffhangers, and a truly unholy amount of sentiment over Bilbo and his relationship to Thorin and his nephews. I hope none of this will put you off reading or commenting!
> 
> I want to go on a journey, here. Come with me?

Erelin was quiet in the small hours of the morning. Bilbo Baggins drew in a deep breath, letting the smoke fill his lungs, and released it into the smog of the night. The gas lamps in the street flickered with the passing of the sea-breeze, but the smog never lifted or moved. A carriage rattled by below, drawn by a small pony, and Bilbo watched it dispassionately. A Dwarf, most likely, though one with considerably social standing to be moving so freely at this hour. 

He puffed at his pipe again, sending a thin, quivering smoke ring into the air. When he had lived in the Shire, he would have delighted in watching the smoke float up into the sky, lit by the starlight and carried away on clean, gently winds. But the Shire was long since behind him -a thousand years away, it sometimes seemed, and here in Erelin, his smoke mingled at once with the thick black smoke from the unceasing fires - gas lamps, and the wood-fires of the poor, and the constant burn of coal for steam. The city reeked of it. The high walls seemed to pen them in with their own foul air, until Bilbo damned his injuries and forced himself to climb to the highest point of his creaky house just to try to rise above the stink, to strive for one more glimpse of the stars. But there were no stars over Erelin. 

The last puff of his pipe was a signal disappointment, and Bilbo knocked the ash over the side of the window, little caring for what might be below. The city was beginning to wake up now. The first cries of sea-birds could be heard as the ships prepared to go out with the tide, and the miners were shuffling from their homes, making for the great gate that led from the city to the mines below the mountain. The Men would only open the gate once in the morning and once at night; there was no mercy in them for a Dwarf who ran late. 

He tucked his pipe away carefully, lowering the window with care and fastening the brass latch. It didn’t do to take risks - not even on the third floor of an empty house; not even when you had nothing to steal. His mangled leg was proof enough of that. He leaned heavily on his cane, easing himself down the steps one at a time, and cursing the dim gas lights that made it so hard to keep an even footing on the warped floorboards. In the Shire, they had never held with steps at all. He missed it fiercely. 

The morning paper arrived with a thump against the door as he made tea, and he burned his hand on the stove as the sound made him jump violently. He looked out his peephole three times before opening the door long enough to snatch the paper and pull his head back inside, re-doing all the bolts at once. Bilbo read the paper over breakfast, and shook his head at the news.

There were apparently more mystical cults on the rise in the heart of the city, despite the best attempts of the Governance to crack down on all religious practices. Dwarves were reminded of the restrictions on movement, particularly around the train stations. Construction was to begin on a new fleet of steam vessels, to replace the wooden Navy that was growing derelict in the harbours of Lune. Bilbo snorted at that. Unless the Governance was planning to orchestrate another war with United Gondor, the new ships would serve as little purpose as their dying predecessors. Progress for the sake of progress. He poured more tea.

He read about the rumours of a plague beginning to spread in the slums of Erelin with a heavy heart, and made himself a note to write home for more supplies. The Took might have banished him to Erelin, but he owed Bilbo the same support as any other Healer - even if Bilbo did only work with Dwarves. 

Bilbo heaved himself upright and began the daily battle. He fought the pipes that hissed and clanked, unwilling to produce enough hot water for his bath, and then he struggled to dress quickly enough to ward off the chill in the air. The too-large house was never warm. By the time he was suitably attired for the day, pocketwatch tucked carefully into his waistcoat, there was already a small queue outside the door of his little infirmary, and he was sucked in. 

He offered what herbs he could to a woman whose wrists and ankles were already dangerously swollen with some joint condition he was not qualified to treat, and wished he could do more than offer her some pain relief. The old watchmaker whose long white beard always seemed to threaten his ability to do his work came by for more of the salve Bilbo made for his painful, failing eyes, and patted his hand kindly in thanks as he tottered away. Bilbo had to actually let one patient inside, to his great discomfort - but the huge, bald, tattooed scrapper was too injured to treat at arm’s length over his half-door. He was not grateful - but then, few of the Dwarves really were. 

“Got no money to pay you, halfling,” he growled angrily as Bilbo finished winding bandages over the shallow knife-wound in his bicep. 

“That’s quite alright,” Bilbo said coolly. “I’m not looking to be paid.”

The Dwarf spat on the floor, and Bilbo winced. “Course not. Governance keeps you in food and housing, after all. We should all be so fortunate.” 

Bilbo was happy to see the back of him.

The crowd eased up after the early hours, and Bilbo had time to sit down with a book between visitors. The sun was weak and watery beyond the smoke and reek, and he had to light a gas lamp to make out some of the faded words in the old text. He was looking for information on Dwarvish plagues, but there was precious little to be found in the reference books of Men. He would have to ask the Took to scour the mathom-houses once again for anything on the Dwarves. It wasn’t like anyone else was using that information any longer. 

There was another wave of patients in the evening, when the ships had returned and the mines had closed, and Bilbo dealt mechanically with the injuries of the day. He stitched and bandaged the jaggedly-cut palm of a dark-haired street urchin who looked like he still ought to be in day school. From the calluses on the lad’s hands, though, and the weary slump to his shoulders, Bilbo was sure he was looking at one of the half-enslaved human boys of the fleet. Once, his heart would have gone out to the boy; but Bilbo had lived ten years now in Erelin, and nine of those without stepping foot from his cold home. He was too weary for pity. 

He closed up for the night as dusk was falling, though the coming of night was easier to determine by the ringing of curfew bells than by any change in the light. Dinner was a quiet affair, and Bilbo chose an old favourite to read as he ate - a book of Shire poetry from an earlier Age. The memory of green things, of clear water and bright skies, was enough to set an ache in his throat, and he put the book down after a while. Ten more years before his Mission would be over and he could go home. 

The knock on the door made him jump, sending his water glass crashing to the floor, and Bilbo’s heart began to pound. A knock in the night had never yet been a good sign. Usually it was a dire medical emergency, but it was always too late to patch the poor bugger up by the time they’d dragged them all the way to Bilbo’s door. He wanted to pretend he was not at home - but Bilbo had taken oaths. He stood carefully, avoiding the shards of glass. The soles of his feet might be tough, but they were not invulnerable. 

He peered out the peephole, standing at the awkward angle necessary to see the faces of taller Dwarves. The Dwarf on his doorstep didn’t look particularly injured or ill. He was standing with his hands tucked into his pockets, rocking back and forth a bit with a deliberate ease that struck Bilbo as very strange indeed. Heaving a sigh, Bilbo unbolted his door, but left the chain latched across, and opened it just wide enough to peer out.

“Can I help you?” he asked, hoping he was giving the impression of not really wanting to help at all. The Dwarf peered in at him, and grinned widely. Bilbo stepped back a bit. That was strange. 

“Are you Bilbo Baggins?” he inquired politely.

“Says so on the door, doesn’t it?” Bilbo asked. He was being unkind, and he knew it. “Look, it’s after curfew, so if you’re not currently dying, you should get home and come back in the morning, all right?”

“Oh, I can’t do that!” the youngster said - because as Bilbo watched him, it was becoming evident that he was quite young. Bilbo stepped back toward the door and looked closer. Very young indeed; possibly less than ninety. He rubbed his tired eyes and looked again. “I haven’t got anywhere to go. I was hoping I could stay with you!”

Bilbo slammed the door in his face, and rubbed a hand across his eyes. Pranksters, at this time of evening? He’d be hauled away by patrols of Men within ten minutes. 

A knock came again, and Bilbo sighed and yanked the door back open, jamming it hard against the brass chain. “Look, I’m really not in the mood for a joke tonight. Go home before you find yourself losing a hand. Curfew is a serious matter.”

“I know it is,” the Dwarf said. He glanced behind himself, staring into the murky gloom, and then looked back to Bilbo. His eyes were piercing. “Please, I need a place to stay, and I don’t know who I can trust.”

There was a distant shout, and Bilbo knew it was over. A patrol had spotted his visitor, and would take care of his problem. 

“I’m a Healer, not a hotel,” Bilbo snapped, guilt making him angry. 

“Please!” There was fear in the young voice now, and the Dwarf put a hand out to the door, grasping the thick wood only inches from Bilbo’s face, but there was no threat in the sudden motion. “Please, I’m looking for something I’ve lost! It’s important!”

Bilbo paused, half-ready to close the door even on the desperate hand. There was something in the plea that struck him inexplicably. A sense of life, maybe; of passion. He hadn’t heard that in Erelin for many years. The patrol was coming closer.

“Move your hand, you young fool,” he spat after a moment, and closed the door enough to unhook the chain before swinging it wide open. It made no sense to let this mad young Dwarf into his home - but there was a strange feeling rising in his gut, and a buzzing in his head, and he acted without thought. The tall, sturdy young fellow was inside in a heartbeat, slamming the door shut behind him, and Bilbo looked him over in the light.

He was blond, and that was the first strange thing. Bilbo had seen precious few Dwarves whose hair was not grey or white, and those who he had seen were almost all dark-haired, or wildly ginger. In the light, the lad seemed even younger than Bilbo had first thought. His eyes were a bright, piercing blue, and he had a strong nose and chin; a handsome lad, for a Dwarf, but Bilbo knew his views were biased. His clothes were striking - well-made, neat, and clean. He was no ragged street urchin. 

“Speak quickly,” he said, trying to sound like he was still in control of the situation. He gripped his cane firmly in one hand, prepared to use in it self-defense if needed. “Who are you? And tell me - this thing you’re looking for, the important thing you’ve lost - what is it?”

“Oh, as to that,” the Dwarf said brightly. He dipped his head in a low bow, which startled Bilbo; Dwarves never bowed to any but other Dwarves. “I’m called Fíli, and I am in your debt.”

Something in Bilbo’s head gave a sudden bright spring of recognition, like hearing a long-forgotten melody. It was distinctly disconcerting.

As he straightened again, Fíli offered Bilbo a strange, sad smile. “And I have no idea what it is I’ve lost. I’m fairly sure it was my heart.”


	2. Lost and Ruined By the Fall

Bilbo stared at Fíli in open-mouthed disbelief as the young Dwarf smiled at him, looking for all the world like an honest fellow. 

“Lost your heart? As in, fallen in love?” He shook his head, laughing in sheer surprise. “Are you telling me you’ve broken curfew and invaded my home over some ill-considered romance?” Bilbo was already regretting having opened the door. 

Fíli looked startled at the idea. “No! Oh, no, that’s not what I meant at all!”

“What, then?” Bilbo demanded. His leg was aching fiercely, having been put to entirely too much use that day, but he didn’t dare sit and show his weakness to a stranger. 

Fíli had no such hesitation. He pulled out a heavy wooden chair and collapsed into it, but quickly sat up properly, as if reminded that he was meant to be on his best behaviour. “That’s just it. I told you, I haven’t a clue! It’s always been missing. There’s been an emptiness - an absence where something precious ought to have been.”

Bilbo groaned and ran a hand through his hair, letting his cane rest on the floor to take some of his weight. This was utter nonsense, but he almost felt it served him right for his foolishness in letting this shallow young fellow in. “That’s not something specially missing, you fool. It’s part of life. We all feel incomplete. It’s certainly no reason to barge in and disturb a poor old Hobbit at his rest!”

Fíli leaned forward, looking curious. “Oh, is that what you are? I did wonder! We read about Hobbits in school, but I didn’t think there were any left around here!”

“There aren’t,” Bilbo said shortly. “I’m the only one, and thank you so much for the reminder!” He sat down on his own chair, letting the cane clatter against the table, and glared at Fíli. “Why are you here?”

“Well, I don’t really have anywhere else to be,” he said, giving an easy shrug. “I’ve been at Durin’s since I was just twenty, and now it’s over, and I’ve no idea where to go.”

Bilbo frowned. Durin’s Academy was the only academic institution in Erelin that catered to Dwarves, and almost nothing was known about it. It was on a hill on the edge of the city, overlooking the harbour, but the walls were thick, and no-one seemed to come in or go out. Only Dwarf lads went there, he had been told, and only the richest and most well-connected families could afford the cost of sending their sons to be educated there. 

“Surely you should have a position of some sort?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at Fíli. “I thought Durin’s graduates were the upper echelons of society? Shouldn’t you be taking tea with the elders of the city?”

“Ah, but I’m not a graduate, am I?” Fíli said, giving a wry laugh. “No-one graduates from Durin’s before they are eighty, and I’m barely seventy.”

Seventy? Bilbo stared at him, realising his ability to estimate age in young Dwarves was worse than he had suspected. “So why aren’t you there? Thrown out for bad behaviour and bothering your elders, I’ll expect?”

“Durin’s has closed,” Fíli told him flatly. “Over and done. Eight hundred years of education, and they’ll never open their doors again.”

That was unthinkable. In the Shire, every child was well-educated, and it had always struck Bilbo as deeply unfair that most of the Dwarves of Erelin could not read or write. The children of Men who lived in the city went to day schools and received at least basic instruction, but Durin’s Academy had been the only place a Dwarf could learn anything more than what their parents could teach.

“Why?” Bilbo asked blankly. 

Fíli spread his hands. “There are no students. For the last fifteen years, there have only been three or four students, and the rest were older and more advanced in their studies. When they left, it was decided that running the whole school for one pupil was inefficient - and I was out on the streets.”

Bilbo let out a slow breath. Everyone knew there weren’t enough Dwarf children, and Bilbo had often wondered whether they were being hidden somewhere. The Dwarves did not talk about their young. But if there were no students at Durin…

“You were the youngest?” 

Fíli nodded. 

“Where are the rest? The others who should have come after you?” 

“They simply aren’t,” Fíli declared, voice solemn. “The staff talked about it often enough. There are no more children.” He gave a bitter little laugh. “There’s some suspicion that I’m the last, more’s the pity for the race.”

That was a punch to the gut that Bilbo had not anticipated. They were not just hidden away, kept from the eyes of Men – they were not there, and he should have realised it. In ten years of work in Erelin, he had never been asked to help an expectant mother, or a sickly child. His patients grew old and weak, and some had passed away, but there were no young accident victims or colicky babes. 

And here was a Dwarf at the tender age of seventy, sitting in his kitchen, bemoaning the existential angst of his existence. It was all too much for Bilbo after a long day. He shot Fíli a glare. 

“And does the last of the race not have a family to go home to?” he asked bitterly. “Surely your mother and father must be missing you?”

“Haven’t any,” Fíli said cheerfully. “I’ve got a rich old uncle of some sort, though I barely remember him. He paid my way through school, but I’ve no idea who he is or how to find him.” 

Bilbo groaned. “And so you’ve decided you are my problem?”

“Not as such,” Fíli told him pensively. “I was looking for somewhere to stay for a bit while I learn about the city, figure out what I’m looking for - that sort of thing.” He grinned almost shyly at Bilbo from beneath his golden eyebrows. “Thought this looked like a promising place - and there were Men after me.”

“You’re not staying,” Bilbo said, pointing a finger at him. “You can spend the night, if you leave me in peace, but you’ll move on at first light.”

“It is a kindness,” Fíli said, the traditional form of thanks falling easily from his lips. “Tell me, Mr. Baggins, why were they after me? You said it was a serious matter, and I didn’t doubt it - but I’ve done nothing wrong!”

“You must know about the curfews!” Bilbo was startled by that ignorance, and pursed his lips as Fíli shook his head. “They’ve been law as long as I’ve been in Erelin. Dwarves are not permitted to move about between dusk and sunrise unless they have leave. You’ll need to educate yourself - and about the restricted zones, as well. Dwarves cannot travel within certain parts of the city, especially near the train lines.”

“Whyever not?” Fíli asked, frowning. “Wasn’t it Dwarves who built those lines, and who mine the coal for the trains?” A spark of anger was growing in his blue eyes, and Bilbo knew he should crush it. Anger got Dwarves killed in Erelin. But he had not seen such life in an age, and he was loathe to stifle it. 

“It’s the way of things,” he said with a tired sigh, rubbing his forehead. “There were attacks on Men, organised by the cults, and they decided Dwarves required more control. Did they teach you nothing in that school?”

Fíli laughed brightly, though the anger lingered beneath. “Oh, they taught us! We learned the Khuzdul that no-one has spoken in three centuries, and the runes that no-one has written in five. Literature and history, certainly, but nothing that might accidentally come in useful. Philosophy until our heads spun, but nothing that will tell me what has happened to my people!”

“I’m fairly certain the cults have some explanations,” Bilbo said, a wry twist to his lips, and Fíli looked disgusted.

“Those, we did learn about,” he spat. “Mysticism and superstition, all meant to make people frightened and compliant. They would have us believing in magic again, and that the world was once flat!”

Bilbo put up his hands in self-defense. “I don’t know anything about it. They’re not exactly welcoming to those who are not Khazad.” A crooked smile tugged at his lips. “But I’m afraid I may once have said similar things to my instructors about their myths, much to my detriment.”

Fíli looked interested, and a mischievous twinkle started in his eyes. Bilbo felt a tug of familiarity at his heart - but he knew it was just because it had been so long since he had seen one so young and innocent, not yet bent with age and burdens. “Mr. Baggins, do I detect some hint of scandal in your past? Do tell!” He leaned forward to prop his elbows on the table, resting his chin in his hands and smirking at Bilbo. A thin, neatly twisted braid swung loose from behind one ear. It wasn’t common these days to see braids - not among those whose hands were destroyed by hard labour on the ships and in the mines. 

Bilbo scoffed at the idea - but with a growing amusement, something he hadn’t felt in a good many years. There hadn’t been many reasons to laugh in Erelin. “Now see here, young fellow, I’ll have you know that I was a very bright and dedicated pupil indeed - until they wanted us to study the herbals and practices of earlier ages, and filled our heads with stories of elves and magic! I objected.” He scratched one ear, feeling a flush rise in the tips of his ears with the remembered embarrassment. “I’m afraid the old Hobbit never quite forgave me the insult, and I wound up posted here.”

Fíli looked at him sideways, ostensibly glancing over at the door which was now blessedly free of visitors. “They didn’t teach us much of Hobbits at Durin’s, I’m afraid. Forgive my rudeness - but is it true you only live a hundred years?”

The youth of him, the clear lack of social graces that age would shape into a more appropriate shape, was troublingly endearing. 

“Usually a bit less than that,” Bilbo said dryly. “I’ve known Hobbits who’ve lived that long, but most are no more than eighty when they pass on.”

Fíli looked startled - as well he should be, as a seventy year old who was no more than a callow youth. “But we read about Hobbits living to much greater ages! Some as much as a hundred and fifty!”

“And so we did, in older days,” Bilbo said quietly. “The world has changed since your books were written, lad. Men have grown taller and stronger, and their lives are longer. They’ve filled this world. We Hobbits found that the Shire was safe enough, and we closed our borders and made ourselves safe. Our lives are long enough for us.” 

A strange, almost comfortable silence fell over the room, and the hiss and clank of the pipes provided a quiet background noise. It was strange to have companionship in the evening, but Bilbo had lost the tenseness in his shoulders and the deep thrum of fear that usually beat in the pit of his stomach with the presence of a stranger. There was no reason for him to be so easy with this young Dwarf - and yet he was. 

Bilbo wound up dragging out a bottle of wine that had been gathering dust in his pantry for nearly a decade, and pouring for them both, though he paused to wonder whether it was considered appropriate for such young Dwarves to drink. Then he shook his head and chuckled at the thought, because at forty-three, he was by far the younger of their little gathering.

After a glass of wine, he was feeling comfortably warm, and the ache in his leg had dwindled to a manageable level, and conversation with Fíli became easy - and, indeed, enjoyable. Bilbo had not met someone as well-read as himself since leaving the Shire, and he found a quiet joy in being able to discuss things beyond the nasty, gritty reality that surrounded him. After two glasses, they were laughing together like old friends, and Bilbo found a strange melody in the sound. He kept thinking, somewhere in a happily detached part of his mind that seemed to be wrapped in cotton wool, that if he could just remember the song that was tugging at his heart and his mind, everything would fall into place. But the song danced away from his grasp as he reached for it, and hung just outside his reach.

Fíli was merry at first, but as the hour grew late and they drained the last of the wine, a sadness seemed to overtake him - and not the melancholy of the overly drunk Hobbits that Bilbo remember so fondly. There was a weight to his sorrow that was almost frightening. He did not speak of it, but his shoulders slumped and his eyes were so horribly sad that Bilbo would not meet them. 

He was missing his heart, he had said, and Bilbo suddenly understood his meaning in a way that Fíli had not been able to express properly in words. He was young and healthy, with the education and privilege that few other Dwarves shared - and yet he seemed to hardly be holding himself together. 

/Of course he isn’t/, something in his head sang. /He has lost his other half, and what is Fíli when he is not an older brother? He does not know himself./

Bilbo blinked, and the thought faded beyond clear recall. What was left was a riotous tug of empathy that he thought he had left behind long ago, and he pushed himself to his feet and thumped over to stand beside the lad. He put a hand on Fíli’s shoulder and shook it gently. 

“Dawn won’t come any later because we haven’t slept,” he said a trifle gruffly. “I haven’t got a room made up to offer you, but there’s a clean bed in my infirmary you can have for the night.”

Fíli put a hand over Bilbo’s in silent acknowledgment and thanks, and stood slowly, like an old man in the body of a youth. Bilbo pointed him through to the infirmary, and waited until the door closed quietly before he limped heavily back to his own room, collapsing into his bed without bothering to change into nightclothes. He was asleep in moments, drifting off with a song tantalisingly close to mind.

He woke up near panic, though, as a scream shattered the silence. Bilbo was on his feet in an instant, fumbling with the lamp he kept close to hand in case of emergency. It took his sleep-thick fingers a long moment to send the light flaring bright, and his brain took equally long to catch on, to remind him that he was not being attacked again - he had a guest. The scream went on and on, full of pain and terror and loss, and Bilbo wanted to clap his hands to his ears to drown out the sound. Instead, he snatched his cane and hurried toward the infirmary faster than his leg could truly bear.

“Wake up, boy,” Bilbo snapped as soon as he opened the door to the infirmary, trying to be heard over the scream. Fíli was flat on his back, fists tangled in the thin blanket, and the expression on his face was one that Bilbo had only ever seen before on those who were dying, and that painfully. “Fíli!” He let the cane fall to the side as he reached the bed, using his free hand to grab the lad’s shoulder and shake him hard. 

Fíli came awake with a gasp that was more like a sob, and the scream turned into a harsh, rasping breath as he struggled to breathe. Bilbo helped him upright, keeping a supportive hand on his back as Fíli’s shoulders heaved. “That’s it, lad,” he muttered, “just breathe.”

It took a long while before he was calm again, though his eyes showed no trace now of the horror and fear that Bilbo had heard in his screams. Fíli seemed puzzled, more than anything, but his face was wet with sweat and tears, and his shirt felt damp beneath Bilbo’s hand. 

“What happened?” he finally asked, wiping at his face with two shaking hands, and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed to sit facing Bilbo.

“You should answer that question,” Bilbo said calmly, using the tone he adopted with his patients. “Do you often suffer from terrors at night?”

“Never,” Fíli said, bemused. “I sometimes wake up feeling that I’ve dreamt something important, but never anything like this.” He looked so puzzled that Bilbo couldn’t question his truthfulness. “I don’t remember what I was dreaming just now. It was so real, though.”

“I should say so,” Bilbo muttered. He tugged at one of Fíli’s sleeves. “Your shirt is damp through. Give it to me, and we’ll get it cleaned up. You can borrow something of mine, though it’ll be small.”

Fíli nodded dazedly, clearly still half-lost in whatever had consumed him so. He lifted his arms, tugging the shirt over his head in one smooth motion, and Bilbo nearly dropped his lantern.

He was sturdily muscled, in the way that Dwarven men tended to be, and golden hair covered his chest and torso - but they could not cover the scar. Just over his heart, marked in garish red, was a thick scar. It was no mark from a simple knife fight or altercation with a beast. This was deep and thick, and Bilbo could not imagine how he had survived the wound. He stuttered, trying not to sound as shocked as he felt.

“What was done to you? How did you live through that?” 

Fíli stared at him, startled. “What do you mean?”

Bilbo jabbed a finger just above the gory sight. “That scar! It must have been a nearly fatal blow!”

Fíli looked down, and his eyes widened in shock. One hand crept up to trace the outline of the mark, and his fingers trembled. His eyes were nearly vacant as he stared at his chest. 

“A sword in my heart,” he said absently, and looked up at Bilbo, lost and frightened. “There was a sword in my heart - and yet there never was! I have never had this mark before.” Bilbo backed away an unsteady step, and Fíli stared at him, eyes wide in his pale face. “What is happening?”

Bilbo shook his head, words stuck in his throat, heart pounding. He could put no words to the events of the night, but the song of memory was shimmering in his head, just beyond his reach. 

Fíli clasped both hands to his heart, as if to assure himself it was still beating, and looked up at Bilbo in something nearby to terror. “What have you done to me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, thank you so much for the support and the amazingly kind comments!! I'm so excited for this project, and taking this journey with you is honestly the greatest blessing. Thank you for taking the time to read this very strange piece!
> 
> In answer to an earlier question - yes, Erelin is a corruption of Ered Luin, which is vaguely where they are. The geography has shifted in a thousand years, but we'll get into all of that in good time.


	3. The Embers of the Ages

It took a long while to calm Fíli down, and even longer to convince him that Bilbo hadn’t had anything to do with his inexplicable episode. The sun was rising as they sat at the table, mugs of tea gone cold in their hands, both staring blankly at the table.

“Something is wrong,” Fíli said quietly, echoing the refrain they had shared a dozen times already. “With me, or with you. Maybe with the whole world. I don’t know anymore.”

“There has to be a rational explanation,” Bilbo muttered, rubbing at his eyes. They’d taken turns telling each other that, as well. “The dream is easy enough. We all suffer strange dreams, sometimes, and you’ve just had a radical upheaval in your life. Some disturbance is bound to be expected.”

Fíli thumped a fist against his chest, made angry by helpless confusion. “And what of this? Why do I remember a sword in my chest, when I’ve never had more than scrapped knees from playing too wildly as a child?”

“How should I know?” Bilbo snapped, slamming his mug down on the table. “You are the one who came to me! I never sought you out, or asked you to stay here!” He heaved himself painfully to his feet, his leg protesting the lack of rest and the indelicate treatment. “I’ll have patients waiting before long. See yourself out if you’re leaving.” He limped heavily back to his room, forgoing a bath that morning. He was in no mood to wrestle with unreliable water pipes. Getting properly dressed was difficult enough, and his hands shook a bit as he buttoned his vest. 

Fíli was still there when he emerged, staring sightlessly at the dark wood of the table, and Bilbo passed him without a word, making for the infirmary. He cleared away the young Dwarf’s things, and set it back in order before unbarring the top half of his door and facing his visitors. 

The usual crowd of complaints were represented - aches and pains of all sorts, minor injuries, fevers that had spiked in the night - and Bilbo worked automatically, passing out herbs and tending to wounds with only half his mind engaged. A scrawny Dwarf, too nervous to stammer out his complaint, came to be treated for the raw redness of his fingers, and Bilbo remembered him.

“Textile mill, right?” he asked crankily, applying a salve and wrapping the worst injuries. He’d seen this Dwarf several times before. He always looked so hungrily at the books that made up Bilbo’s little medical library. “Invest in some gloves or something. It’s only getting worse, isn’t it?”

“The - the quality’s gone down,” he stuttered, blinking fast. “Thread cuts, and the fabric’s so rough. It - it wears on you.”

“Gloves,” Bilbo said firmly. “Or I’m going to think you’re only visiting me for the pleasure of my company.” The Dwarf nodded quickly and took off, but not without glancing back over his shoulder at Bilbo, or at his books. 

The stream dried to a trickle, and then there was quiet at Bilbo’s door. The sounds of the city didn’t stop - crackling fires, and the monotonous clang of the machines that ran everything, now - but there were no more faces silently twisted in pain and worry. Dwarves did not complain, as a rule. They sought help when they needed it, and most were not too proud to ask, but they didn’t beg, and they didn’t complain. They endured. 

He went back inside. The Dwarves worked during the day, almost without exception, and he would be unbothered, except in case of an emergency, until their shifts were over for the night. Fíli was still in the kitchen, but he had put his shirt back on to cover his scarred chest, and was pouring over one of Bilbo’s books. 

“I thought you were leaving,” Bilbo said coolly, glancing at his pocketwatch. It was Dwarvish make, a replacement for his father’s watch that had been smashed in the attack that ruined his leg. 

“Where do I have to go?” Fíli asked. There was little life to it, and he didn’t look up. 

“Find your uncle,” Bilbo suggested. “Surely he can help you, if he’s that rich.”

Fíli’s head snapped up at that, and he fixed Bilbo with a sharp blue stare. “Something is happening to me, Mr. Baggins, and I want to know what it is - and I think it must have something to do with you. Why would all this start just now, just when I meet you, if it weren’t?”

Bilbo sighed. He wasn’t going to waste time arguing. He glanced at the paper that Fíli had retrieved and left on the table, looking at it just long enough to see a headline on the growing plague worries. No-one had come to him about it yet, of course. He might be the only official Healer assigned to Erelin, but that didn’t mean that Governance trusted him, or that the Dwarves would come to him with anything but clear and present problems. He needed to write back to the Shire, and he needed to send word to his contacts in the city, to see if there might be anything he could do to help the Dwarves contain the spread of the illness. He didn’t need Fíli and his problems, and his blood-curdling scream, and the way he made something long-since dormant in Bilbo’s heart clench. 

“I don’t know anything,” he said quietly, “and I don’t know how to help you.”

“Then let’s find someone who can!” Fíli gestured wildly toward the door, his eyes lighting up with the idea of action. “There must be someone! There were learned men at Durin’s who might be able to help, who might have heard of something like this happening before!”

Bilbo sat down deliberately. “No.”

Fíli blinked at him in shock, letting his book fall closed. “You don’t want to help?”

“I have no objections to helping you - but I’m not going out there.” Bilbo looked around the room, taking in the familiar sights that had become almost comforting. “I don’t leave this house. Erelin is no place for a Hobbit.” 

Fíli’s eyes softened, and he looked at Bilbo’s leg in sympathetic understanding. “Did a Dwarf do that to you?” 

Bilbo nodded, the movement tight and jerky, and let one hand creep to his knee, fingers trailing down to ghost over the place where bone had shattered and flesh had torn, where all his best efforts to set it right had been minimally useful. He could walk these days, with a semblance of normality, but it would never be whole again. 

“Well, that’s fine!” Fíli said, jumping up and beginning to pace around the room. “I can go and look for help, see what I can learn, and then I’ll come back and tell you!”

“Why are you so set on this?” Bilbo asked, feeling weighed down by the energy and innocence of the lad. It tore at his nerves, and at the shields he had put up, and he wanted to push him out the door and lock it again behind him. “I’ve never met a Dwarf so bent on finding trouble! Leave it be, lad. Find your uncle, find yourself some profitable work, and live your life. Leave me to mine.”

“I can’t!” He whirled on the spot, like a caged animal, and his hands tangled themselves in his golden hair. “I’ve lived my whole life feeling like I’ve been torn in two and scattered to the winds - and now I’m dreaming of lives I never lived, and deaths I never died, and the scar of it is written on my heart! You cannot expect me to go to work in a mine and never think on it!”

“Then go back to your school and bury yourself in your books!” Bilbo retorted. “See what they can tell you of this! I know nothing of the history of the Dwarves! Perhaps this is something that happens to your people, and my scant references have not informed me!”

Fíli looked away, almost ashamed, and shook his head. “The history of the Dwarves is a closed book, Mr. Baggins, even at Durin’s. We have lost our stories. If this is something that takes Dwarves regularly, I will find no word of it there.”

For Hobbits, history was a thing to be taken very seriously on a personal level. Bilbo had grown up learning all the stories of his relatives, near and distant, and of every memento and mathom and heirloom in his family’s neat little home. But beyond that, Hobbits were distinctly uninterested in the stories of the past - which was, after all, a distant country and therefore suspect. The myths of the past were handed down to children at bedtime, and to students in the form of lessons on medical history, and not otherwise. He had always thought, though, that Dwarves clung more dearly to their past.

“But, surely,” he started, and Fíli cut him off, annoyance written clearly in his young face.

“They took it from us when we were contained in the cities,” he said angrily. “They took our books and records and artifacts, and we were told to focus on the jobs in front of us. Men.” The word was a curse, and Fíli’s mouth twisted in a nasty, unpleasant shape. 

“But I’ve heard the stories!” Bilbo protested. “This Durin your Academy was named after, I’ve heard about him.”

“Oh, I’m sure you have,” Fíli laughed, and it was bitter. “Durin appeared from the rocks, and lived seven times. Durin fought a dragon bare-handed and won his mountain back from it’s clutches. Durin walked a magical ring into the fires of the heart of the earth and was saved from the flames by eagles.” He snorted. “These are legends told to children to make them dream great dreams at night. All we know of our history is what has been set down in the last two hundred years, since our confinement to the cities.”

Bilbo threw up his hands. “If you do not know your own people, how can you expect me to? I’m a Healer with a very limited supply of herbs, and none of them will do you one whit of good! I do not know what you would have me do.” 

Fíli looked so disappointed that Bilbo felt it in his bones, and he turned away, going to the sideboard to wind the clock that stood there, dusty and unpolished. 

The suddenly awkward silence was broken by a quiet ring of the brass bell that hung outside Bilbo’s infirmary, and he startled at the sound. Eyes downcast, Fíli handed Bilbo the cane he had left leaning against the table, and he leaned heavily on it as he made his way through the pass and into the infirmary. The Dwarf who stood at his half-door was unfamiliar to Bilbo, but didn’t look terribly ill or injured. He was dressed all in shades of rust and brown, his clothing tattered around the edges in the way common to most Dwarves, but his eyes were bright and oddly cheerful. He ducked his head in a little bow as Bilbo approached. 

“Master Healer,” he greeted Bilbo, a smile tugging at the edges of his mouth. 

“What can I do for you?” Bilbo asked shortly. He’d had about enough of Dwarves for one day, and it wasn’t yet noon. 

“Well, I suppose that’s the question, isn’t it?” The Dwarf looked at Bilbo strangely. “I rather think I’m meant to be doing something for you.”

“Gandalf’s beard! Will there be no end to this madness?” Bilbo exploded. He threw his cane against the door, where it clattered to the ground and lay innocently in a weak and smoggy beam of sunlight. “Is there an illness upon all Dwarves now that makes you seek to frustrate an old Hobbit into an early grave?”

His visitor clucked his tongue regretfully, shaking his head. “I seem to have come at a bad time. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.” He glanced over his shoulder quickly, then raised a fist in the air before releasing it into an open palm that he extended toward Bilbo. “May his hammer shield you,” he murmured quietly, and smiled as Bilbo with such a sweet, sad look that he was quite taken aback. His heart gave a thud, and the faint buzzing feeling in his head picked up a notch in intensity. 

“You!” Fíli had followed Bilbo through the pass at the sound of his outburst, and now stood pointing accusingly at the ragged Dwarf. “You’re from the cults! They taught us the signs and sayings you use. Keep away from this Hobbit!”

“Really?” Bilbo asked, curiosity waging a brief but fierce war against annoyance and coming out on top. “Are you, then?”

The Dwarf looked hunted, and glanced over his shoulder again before dropping a brief nod. “Yes - but I can’t talk about it out in the open like this!” He looked slightly desperate, but Bilbo’s interest was now well and truly piqued. He dropped a hand to the brass knob, working the stiff key in the lock until the lower half of the door swung open with a creak, and the Dwarf hopped inside. Bilbo reached over the door and flipped his little plaque over, so that it informed any passers-by that he was currently Out to Tea - a lie he had been cheerfully proclaiming for nearly a decade - and then swung both halves of the door shut, leaving them in the gloom of the closed infirmary. 

Fíli strode over with something like a swagger, and took up an aggressive position at Bilbo’s side. Bilbo tried not to be amused. 

“I won’t have you trying to kidnap him, or force him to help you with your vile schemes,” he said, somewhat grandly - a boy playing at being a grown Dwarf, and looking a bit foolish in the attempt. 

“Right, well, it’s just as well I’ve not got any plans toward that end, then,” the visitor said, grinning cheekily. He was even more shabby-looking up close, and Bilbo noted that his tattered hat looked like it had once been made of some sort of fur. Now it was little more than patchy scraps held together with too much thread. “Bofur, they call me.” He bowed to Fíli, and it almost seemed to encompass Bilbo as well. 

“Fíli,” the lad said sullenly, and returned the bow, though in a cautious, perfunctory manner that could have been taken as insult, had Bofur chosen to stand on ceremony. 

“Bilbo Baggins,” Bilbo put in, a little miffed at being left out of the proper greetings. Dwarves! No respect for anyone under four foot tall. He shook his head. “So, these cults.”

“That’s not the nicest thing you might call us,” Bofur pointed out, with a good-natured grin. “Is the tea this way, then?” He wandered through toward the kitchen, and Bilbo and Fíli followed. “We call ourselves the Children of the Maker - and we’re not in the business of vile schemes, as it happens.”

“You want people believing in the old gods!” Fíli snapped. “You want them frightened!”

Bofur tipped his head to the side, considering the lad. “Now, why would anyone be frightened?”

Fíli repeated the gesture Bofur had made before with the closed fist raised high, and raised his eyebrows meaningfully. “Mahal’s hammer? Meant to strike fear into our hearts, isn’t it?”

Bofur laughed - a rich, full sound that made the tip of Bilbo’s nose twitch. For a second, he could have sworn he smelled the smoke of a campfire. 

“Oh, lad. They’ve taught you nothing of the Maker! Mahal is not to be feared. His hammer is our shield against our foes, and never a weapon against his people!”

Fíli blinked, but remained stubborn. “But it’s all mysticism! Deities and magic and the like - what place does it have in Erelin?”

Bofur sighed, his eyes sad, but he smiled wistfully. “Aye, that’s the question of the age, isn’t it?” He patted Fíli gently on the shoulder and handed him a cup of tea, ignoring his bemused look. “It’s not about magic, boy. It’s about love.”

“That is all very poetic,” Bilbo put in, taking a second cup of tea from Bofur’s hands and cradling it in both of his, inhaling the warm steam gratefully. “But none of it has a thing to do with me, and yet here you are, in my kitchen. Two of you - and both spouting the strangest nonsense I’ve heard since coming to this benighted city.” 

Bofur flapped a hand at them, and they both sat down without question, waiting as he joined them. He stuffed a biscuit in his mouth as he sat, eating hungrily. “It’s all got something to do with you, Master Baggins, though I don’t know what. I was on my way to visit the sick on the other side of the city, and as I passed by, I had the strangest sensation. Buzzing in my head, that sort of thing.” He gestured vaguely up towards his horrible hat. “And I knew I had to stop. There’s something happening here that I’m meant to help with.”

“Are you a prophet now, as well as a zealot?” Fíli asked sharply - but he looked uncomfortable, and one hand had gone up to rub at his temple, as though he could feel the same buzzing sensation himself. 

“Of course not,” Bofur said, chuckling. “No more than any Dwarf. I have a way with people, though, and it usually does not lead me too far astray.” He cocked his head, studying Fíli. “Take you, for example. You’re young. Very young, in fact, and clearly well-educated. How old are you, lad?”

“Seventy,” Fíli said uncomfortably, shuffling a bit in his seat. “But I’m no child. I know better than to trust a priest.”

“Seventy,” Bofur mused. He shook his head. “Youngest I’ve ever met, but for one. Mahal preserve us.” 

Fíli knocked his tea over and stared at Bofur, wild-eyed. “One? There was another Dwarf, younger than me?”

Bofur nodded, but he looked deeply sad. His eyes were distant as he spoke. “Sixty five years ago, it was - the worst winter we’ve seen in a century, and a baby Dwarf was left on my doorstep. I was hardly more than a youth myself, but he couldn’t have been more than a few hours old. I took him in, of course, and we saw him as a miracle. It had been many a year, then, since a child was born to any Dwarf.”

“Where is he?” Fíli asked intently, leaning forward. “What is he like?”

Bofur shook his head. “Gone. We were set upon by Men in the depths, and they took him from me. Said he must be a child of Men, his features were so fair. I searched for him, of course, but what can be done against the strength of Men?” He stared into the depths of his cup, utterly lost. “So it goes,” Bofur murmured. “Ever I have failed to protect you.”

Bilbo’s skin prickled, and he shivered a bit. There was something in the air between them, like the crackling sensation in the air before the heavens let loose with rain and lightning. 

“And now?” he asked, voice hushed. It didn’t seem right to speak loudly. “What are we doing? What is happening to us?” It was impossible, now, to pretend that nothing strange was occurring. 

Bofur blinked and lifted his head, eyes clearing. “The Children of the Maker have been waiting. For hundreds of years, we have kept the old ways and knowledge, and looking for our hope.”

“What hope is there to be found in Erelin?” Bilbo asked. The sun’s pale light seemed to answer his question. Shine as it might on the fields and villages of the Shire, it could not pierce the darkness of the last home of the Dwarves. They were fading, lost in the night of the city that was their prison, and a load of old mystics hiding beneath the ground would not change any of that. 

“There is always hope,” Bofur said gently. There was strength in his eyes, and in the kindness of his smile. “We are not abandoned. These truths we know: we are loved of our Maker, and we are to be saved, until the world is remade. There is a place for us, even as we wither and grow old.” He leaned forward, his eyes growing sharper and more intense. “And it is said that there is one who could lead us out of this darkness. A king, who could bring hope to the Dwarves again - one who led us before, and will return again.” 

Bilbo blinked, taken aback - and in the instant of closing his eyes, he saw an image. Dark hair, streaked with silver, and fierce blue eyes that burned like dragonfire. Startled, he opened his eyes again, and saw a look of shock on the faces of both Dwarves that he was sure mirrored his own. 

“Did we lose him?” he asked, not even sure what he was saying.

“We’ll find him,” Fíli answered slowly, sounding dazed. “We’ll find them all again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it begins!
> 
> I've spent more time with my copy of the Silmarillion in plotting this story than I have in a decade, but at the heart, it's a Dwarvish story. 
> 
> Erelin is dark, and depressing, and brings out the very worst in everyone - but I will ask you to remember that the sun still shines on Middle Earth, and that there has always been a will opposing the forces of darkness. It will not always be so grim. 
> 
> Thank you so much for your kindnesses, and for taking the time to read! It is so very much appreciated!


	4. The Sands of Time are Sinking

Bilbo was not quite certain how he had ended up with a seemingly constant Dwarvish visitor - but Fíli had not left the previous evening, and had seemed content to make himself comfortable in the infirmary indefinitely. Bilbo thought to at least get some work out of his guest, and soon set Fíli to work clearing out an upper room or two, and heaved a sigh of relief when the sturdy young Dwarf hauled his meagre collection of belongings away up the steps. Of course, he regretted it later.

The screaming from the floor above had Bilbo out of bed in a flash, heart pounding with terror, and hand fumbling at his side for a sword he had never worn. His cane was at hand, though, and he leaned heavily on it as he climbed the stairs as quickly as his leg would allow, though he had to bite back a gasp of pain with every step. Fíli was still screaming when he got there, and Bilbo shook him roughly. 

“Fíli! Wake up!” 

He came awake with a shudder and a sob that he quickly muffled with both hands, body shaking in reaction, and Bilbo slumped against the wall, stretching his leg out before him. “That’s it, lad,” he murmured, bedside manner coming automatically despite the hour. “Just breathe.”

“Can’t,” Fíli gasped. He put his hands to his throat. “They hanged me. Couldn’t breathe at all.” Another shudder wracked his body, and he looked like he might be ill. “Someone was screaming.”

Bilbo frowned, discord jangling in his head. “That’s not right. You died in battle!” He wasn’t sure what made him say that, but he knew it, deep down. “You’ve got the scar to prove it!” 

Fíli yanked up his shirt to check, and Bilbo sent the flame shooting high and bright in the gas light, illuminating the dim room. Sure enough, the scar was still there. But Bilbo frowned as he looked at the lad. There, around his neck, was a dark purple bruise, deep and painful. Bilbo reached out with a cautious hand to probe the injury, and Fíli scuttled backward, hands flying to his throat. 

“Well,” Bilbo said after a moment, as Fíli continued to breathe roughly, watching him with wary eyes, “it seems we’re not to have a night of peace any time soon.”

They tried to sleep again once they had calmed themselves, and Bilbo hoped Fíli might have slumbered, but Bilbo lay awake, staring at the ceiling, and trying very hard not to think of what it would be like to be hanged - or to remember it.

Dawn’s first light brought Bilbo’s usual visitors. They stood outside in the chilly drizzle, waiting patiently to be seen to, none of them complaining even as their beards grew heavy with rain. He spotted Bofur at the back of the queue, and his ears prickled. They had parted the previous day on friendly terms, but he had not expected to see the Dwarf again so soon - not until he had news to share. Bilbo picked up the pace, slapping packets of herbs into waiting hands and moving with unusual speed. He cursed his leg under his breath every time it caused him to nearly stumble or break his stride. 

They shuffled away into the morning gloom as he finished with them, some giving him a nod of approval or grudging thanks. Most simply took what he offered and went on their way. Gratitude was not the way of things in Erelin. 

Finally, they were gone, all except for Bofur and his companion, a grey-headed old Dwarf who was close by his side, as if offering support. They made their way to Bilbo’s door, and he swung it open quickly, beckoning them inside. 

“What has happened?” he asked, looking them up and down with a Healer’s eye. 

“We don’t rightly know, Master Healer,” the grey-headed Dwarf said loudly. He eyed Bofur worriedly. “We were woken in the night by such a scream as you have never heard! Even I heard it, though my ears fail me these last few years. He would not answer when we questioned his dreams.” He leaned in toward Bilbo as if sharing a secret, but did it at such a volume that it could not be missed by anyone in the room. “They may be from Mahal, these dreams. We must know!”

Bilbo tried to school his expression, but he was afraid the disdain that flickered over his face must have been visible. “Master Dwarf, I think it unlikely. Our dreams are the products of our minds and the experiences of our lives- not messages from invisible deities.” He took Bofur by the arm and led him to sit down on the examination table, noting how his hands were clenched in tight fists. 

“Are we under siege now?” Fíli asked wryly, putting his head around the corner of the door. He did not look rested, precisely, but he was walking and talking easily. His clothing had been carefully arranged to hide his throat. “Will the cults descend upon us one by one, until we are all godly creatures?”

“Tea, please,” Bilbo called severely. “They’ve had a long wait in the rain - and you’d do well to show a bit more respect to your elders!” 

Fíli shrugged easily, a grin tugging crookedly at one corner of his mouth. “If we all followed that advice, I should never be respected at all!” He sauntered off toward the kitchen, and Bilbo turned his attention back to Bofur. 

“You dreamed a terrible thing,” he said flatly. There could be little doubt of it. “I expect you dreamed of your death, and that in such detail that it seemed like reality.”

Bofur gaped at him, mouth open and eyes wide, and nodded slowly. “It’s all faded now,” he said, voice hardly more than a whisper. “But I was so afraid.”

“Were you changed by it?” Bilbo asked, and gestured broadly at him. “Is there a mark upon you now?”

Bofur hesitated a moment, then slowly removed his ragged coat and pushed his sleeves up his arms, baring his forearms. They were horribly scarred - flesh twisted and mangled as though it had been half-melted and re-formed, and Bilbo swallowed hard. 

“These were not here before I slept,” Bofur said. There was horror in his voice. “There are others, all over.”

“Burnt,” Bilbo whispered, gentle fingers prodding at the scars of what must have been a ghastly wound. “You burned to death.”

Bofur shuddered, then straightened his shoulders, tugging the sleeves down to cover the scars, and adopted an expression of determined cheerfulness. “Well, I suppose I’d best watch my step, then. I don’t want to do it again.” His voice was cheerful, but the horror was still in his eyes, and Bilbo could hear the unsteadiness in his breathing.

“How do you mean?” Bilbo inquired, backing up a pace to give the Dwarf his space. 

“If they catch us - the Men - we’re generally executed. Those of us who hold to the old ways, that is,” he explained at Bilbo’s look of confusion. “They will not stand for it.”

“And they burn people?” Bilbo was horrified. The papers never spoke of that - but there was a lot the papers didn’t tell him. 

“Sometimes,” Bofur said. “If they’ve made enough trouble. I’d say I’ve caused them enough sleepless nights over the years to warrant a fire.” He shook his head, dismissing the gory idea. “But how did you know? I had not even told Oin about the marks!”

“I’ve seen this before,” Bilbo said grimly. Fíli came in, bearing a tray of tea, and passed them around quickly. Oin was watching their conversation, but the incomprehension on his face made it clear that he was following little of their talk. “Fíli, we seem to have found you a companion in your nighttime adversities.”

Fíli blinked in surprise, and rounded on Bofur. “You’ve been having the dreams, too?”

“Last night was the first time,” Bofur said, startled. “I don’t remember anything - but my body seems to.” He pushed one sleeve up high enough to display the scars again, and Fíli sucked in a sharp breath as the truth registered. Wordlessly, he tugged aside the cloths around his neck to show the bruising, which almost looked black in the dim light, and then lifted his tunic to show the scar over his heart.

“I hadn’t had such dreams until I met Mr. Baggins,” Fíli said soberly, and let his tunic fall again. “Now, for two nights, I have dreamed of deaths I have not died.”

“Mahal preserve us,” Bofur whispered fervently. It was a prayer. 

“But you remembered more this time, didn’t you?” Bilbo asked, winding his fingers tightly around the warm mug Fíli had pressed into his hands. 

“Not much,” he said, frowning. “Just images here and there, and someone screaming for me.” He winced at the memory, eyes pained. 

“If we are both having these dreams, does it mean we have shared this experience that we dream about?” Bofur asked, running a hand over his head and knocking his tattered cap backward. “Or is Mahal trying to teach us something?”

Fíli glowered at him. “Keep your gods out of this. I am no plaything in their games.”

Bilbo interceded before a theological debate could break out. “For the moment, let’s assume a rational answer is possible, hmm? What do we do now?”

“We need to find the King,” Bofur said firmly. “He is the only one who can lead us from our darkness.”

“Surely we need to determine if there are more Dwarves who suffer from your same condition!” Bilbo protested. The thought of this horror descending upon the Dwarves at large shook his confidence, but he tried to think about it as he would approach a disease. “We need to discover all of the cases, and see what the common factors are.”

Fíli shook his head, looking stubborn. “I have to find the thing I have lost! I felt, in my dream, that even as I was dying, I was still whole.” He put a hand to his chest, perhaps not conscious he was doing it. “I will find my heart, and then, perhaps, all of this will make sense.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, and then Bilbo shook his head. “Anyway, it’s not my business. This is Dwarf matters, and I have duties as a Healer. I can’t go running off on some mysterious quest!” He thought of the rumours of plague, and felt an uneasiness. “I must look to my duties.”

“Very well,” Fíli said, nodding quickly. “I believe I must seek my uncle. If there is anyone who can tell me what I might be looking for, surely it is my kin!”

“How will you find him, then?” Bilbo asked, furrowing his forehead. “I thought you didn’t even recall his name.”

“I don’t, but they kept careful records at Durin’s,” Fíli told him. “Someone who worked there will know who paid my schooling fees.”

Bofur got to his feet, looking steadier now, and more composed. “Oin and I will return to our Keep. The Children of Mahal have kept much knowledge that has been lost to the world, hidden away. I don’t say that we can read it all, mind, but it’s somewhere to start.”

Fíli leaned in, looking interested. “If it’s a matter of reading runes, perhaps I can help! They taught us at school, but we had few texts to study.”

“I’ll see what might be of use and bring it around,” Bofur promised, clapping his hat back on his head and offering Fíli a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, lad. We are not abandoned.” He lifted a fist high and brought it down an open palm, which he laid lightly on Fíli’s golden head for a moment. “May his hammer shield you, and his fires keep you ever warm.” Fíli looked dubious at the blessing, but allowed the contact without a protest, and Bofur made for the door with a quick bow to Bilbo. 

Oin made to follow him, and paused to clap a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. “My thanks for your assistance, though I’ve no idea what you’ve done,” he said loudly. “But we seem always to be in your debt, Master Baggins!” 

Bilbo smiled at him, easy in a way that he never was with strangers, and tried to stomp down the sudden conviction that this man would be the next to suffer the terrible dreams and inexplicable scars. 

Fíli followed them out the door, promising to be back before the curfews that night, and Bilbo found himself alone in his house for the first time in what seemed like ages. He shut and locked the door behind them, pulling out his pipe as he limped to his writing desk by the window. He had duties to attend to, no matter what manner of madness these Dwarves insisted on dragging into his life.

He finished his letter to the Took before the post arrived, and handed the thick missive over to the old Dwarf with a quick nod. It was an exchange, though, as two more heavyset Dwarves staggered up behind him, laden with parcels, and Bilbo groaned. He had forgotten it was time for the deliveries. 

Every fortnight they came from the Governance, all neatly wrapped and labeled, delivered to Bilbo’s doorstep so he never had need of stepping out into Erelin. He had tried requesting things specifically when he first arrived, idealistic and passionate, but that had quickly been beaten out of him by the cold unconcern of the Governance. They sent the cheapest materials they could, it seemed - herbs half-rotten or old enough to have lost most of their potency, and bandages nearly rough enough to be used as sandpaper - but it was still more than Bilbo received from the Shire. They sent other necessities, too - the food and drink he needed, and pipeweed about half as often as he would like it. He got by. 

This time, there seemed to be more parcels than usual, and Bilbo looked them over curiously. There were extra syringes and glassware for the cures he concocted himself, and a large collection of wide fabric strips labeled MASKS. Most strange of all, though, were the little bottles of cloudy liquid that he recognised at a glance. A mixture of pain-relieving opiate and alcohol, it was known for it’s usefulness in aiding injured Men and Hobbits. But the Governance had never sent any to Bilbo before, and for a good reason. The mixture had a potent effect on Dwarves, and even the tiniest dosage given to a human child would see a Dwarf dead in hours, gone peacefully in his sleep as the drug carried him down. 

Bilbo pushed the little wooden medicine chest away from him with a shudder, and looked through the wrapping for any sort of explanation. He finally happened upon a note, written in the clear, blocky script of Men that always looked childishly awkward to Bilbo. 

“For the Alleviation of Suffering,” it read, “should the Plague run it’s course.” That was all - but Bilbo could read between the lines. He threw the note into the chest and slammed it shut, then hobbled away with it, stuffing it at the back of his medicine cabinet with fierce, sharp movements. He would not use the medication of Men to end the lives of the Dwarves - not unless the suffering was so great that it overrode every oath he had taken. 

But his eyes had been opened, and Bilbo found his morning paper and began scouring it for information, eventually going so far as to find an old map of the city and start charting the places where the rumours said the plague had been seen. The reported cases were all near the harbour, where Dwarves and Men mingled together on the ships that brought in goods from afar, and went in and out each day to haul fish from the sea. The Dwarves hated the ships, for they were no more fond of water than most Hobbits, and it was seen as demeaning to have to leave the solid earth and go out on the wooden contraptions. 

Of course the plague was coming in from the harbour, where Dwarves mingled with Men from all different parts of Middle Earth, and were exposed to many illnesses that Erelin had not seen. Bilbo frowned as he considered the supplies he had been sent. It seemed that the Governance anticipated the plague being very troublesome indeed, to dedicate so many resources to it before the one Healer in the city had seen a single case. It almost seemed that they had known in advance. 

But that was an unworthy idea, and he dismissed it quickly. Bilbo shook his head at his own foolishness and forced himself to his feet, busying his hands and mind with putting away all of the supplies and brewing the simple remedies he tried to keep on hand. He portioned out the herbal remedies, preparing for the evening rush on his door, and tried not to wonder what Bofur and Fíli might be finding. He wanted nothing to do with their mad quest. It frightened him, the strangeness of what was happening to them, and the size of it - and most of all, it frightened Bilbo how very much he wanted to throw himself into the midst of it. These Dwarves, these strangers, had invaded his life and home - and he half wanted to follow them out the door and into the unknown, something in his heart telling him that he would never be the same - and that he would be happier for it. 

He was startled from his thoughts by a knock on the front door, and he hurried through to find Fíli standing there expectantly. He grinned at Bilbo as the door swung open and hopped inside, making himself immediately at home.

“You look pleased,” Bilbo said cautiously. Fíli nodded, throwing himself in a chair and leaning back with youthful grace. 

“I found Dori - he was keeper of the records at Durin’s - and persuaded him to give over the name and address of my dear old uncle!” he said brightly, stretching his long legs across Bilbo’s kitchen floor. “The old fellow doesn’t live far from here, but I thought I should save a visit until tomorrow and avoid any further trouble with the patrols.”

“Oh, good,” Bilbo said sarcastically. “I’m so looking forward to another restful night of nightmares and exciting new wounds.” But he had to turn away to hide a tiny smile as his heart was inexplicably lightened by the idea that he would not be alone in the cold house. 

“You’re not having the dreams, are you?” Fíli asked, leaning forward in a quick, smooth move, resting his forearms on his knees as he watched Bilbo. 

“No,” he admitted. “I don’t remember any of my dreams at all.” Fíli looked almost disappointed at that, and Bilbo hesitated a moment, but then sighed. “But I am feeling very odd these days. It’s like there are thoughts in my head that aren’t mine; someone else’s memories knocking at a door and just waiting to rush in.”

Fíli nodded furiously, getting up to pace the floor in front of the cast-iron stove, back and forth. “Exactly! And there’s this - singing, perhaps, that I can almost hear sometimes!” 

Bilbo opened his mouth to agree, but was surprised by the brass bell ringing outside the infirmary. Fíli seemed to deflate as Bilbo made his way toward the door, and Bilbo hesitated. 

“Why don’t you come along?” he suggested, not knowing why he was bothering. “You can lend a hand. Fetching and carrying is hard on this old leg of mine.”

Fíli brightened, nearly prancing along in Bilbo’s wake, and he stifled a smile at the reaction. The boy might be decades his senior, but he was no more mature than a tween Hobbit, to Bilbo’s mind. 

He set Fíli to running for him as he saw to patients, and the evening’s chores flew by fast. Bilbo had to set two bones, which was always an agonising procedure, and Fíli’s strength came in handy in holding the Dwarves steady as he saw to their injuries. He almost wondered why he hadn’t taken an assistant before.

Bofur found his way back just before dark, looking considerably rounder than Bilbo had thought him before, and they let him in hastily. Bilbo closed up for the night just as the lantern lighter made his way by, gradually filling the street with the flickering lights that were more for the benefit of the patrols than the Dwarves who inhabited most of the city. Bilbo made a quick supper for three, marveling at the fact he even had enough place settings for that number, and listened to Bofur and Fíli discussing the books and parchments that Bofur had brought in under his tattered coat. 

“No, that’s a general form of King, not a specific name,” Fíli said, pointing at a worn set of runes with a confident hand. “Is this a prophecy of some sort?”

“We’re not certain,” Bofur told him, shoving another volume toward the young scholar. “They say Gandalf himself wrote some of these.”

“No, look,” Bilbo objected, waving a spatula at them. “That’s ridiculous. Gandalf is just a story! One of those things you tell children when they’re frightened in a thunderstorm - that it’s just Gandalf’s fireworks in the heavens! For pity’s sake, you can’t believe he was someone real!”

“Where else do stories come from?” Bofur asked, eyes shining with amusement. “I imagine there once was a man called Gandalf - though whether he did half the things they say he did is doubtful. But our texts came from somewhere, even if we’ve lost track, and someone must have written them.”

Bilbo turned back to the stove, shaking his head. That it should come to discussing Gandalf as if he’d been a real person! The Took would laugh at Bilbo Baggins now, putting up with such tales in his home. If he didn’t mind these Dwarves, they would be believing in Elves next!

The two argued together the whole time he was cooking, though there was a friendliness to their tones that made Bilbo relax into the noise and tune out the words. It was surprisingly pleasant to have people in his kitchen, now that his body seemed to have stopped seeing them as potential threats. He piled all three plates high and set them on the table, frowning at the two with his arms crossed until they shamefacedly put the books and papers away and focused on their food. 

“There’s so much to read!” Fíli said, sounding awed. 

“Are you finding any answers?” Bilbo asked, looking apprehensively at the dusty scrolls and books that were already threatening to take over his kitchen.

“Perhaps,” Bofur said, grinning at Fíli. “If we can trust our translator here, it seems that all of the stories point to a king who will return in the darkest days. The Dwarves have had many kings, but few who seem likely to come back for us now that we are poor and desolate.”

“It’s probably Durin,” Fíli said solemnly. “If he returned to his people six times, why not again? And yes,” he said, turning to Bilbo expectantly, “I know what you will say. It’s not rational to believe in an undying king who comes back to save us over and over. But as Bofur said, the stories come from somewhere.”

“Lad,” Bilbo said dryly, “you have the marks of two different deaths on your body. I think we’re beginning to move past a search for merely rational answers.” He drained his cup and poured himself a bit more wine, adding a splash to the other two glasses at the same time. “So, this Durin. Are we sure this is who we’re looking for?”

“The only other candidate the old texts speculate about seems a long shot,” Bofur chuckled, accepting the wine with a grateful nod. “They don’t even use his name! Story goes that there was a king who led his people back to Erebor, if you can believe that, and tried to defeat a dragon armed with nothing more than a handful of old men and children. Died in the attempt, of course.”

Bilbo blinked at that, something in the back of his mind starting to itch. “Why on earth would they think him a possibility?” he asked blankly. “He doesn’t exactly sound like leadership material.”

“We don’t know!” Fíli put in, eyes shining with excitement. “It doesn’t make any sense, really. Why send us a king who has already failed? Durin’s the only logical choice.”

“So how do we go about finding a mythical undying king of the Dwarves?” Bilbo asked. The two Dwarves glanced at one another and shrugged in unison. 

“Keep reading,” Fíli said firmly. “There must be something here that will help.”

“Mahal will guide us,” Bofur added, looking content. 

“Some good your precious Maker has done us until now,” Fíli said bitterly, stabbing at a bit of meat with his knife. “If Mahal were watching over us, we wouldn’t be in this situation to begin with. I think we should stick to the books.”

“No, hang on,” Bilbo said, thinking back to what had been said earlier. “This Erebor you mentioned - what was that?”

“You don’t know about Erebor?” Bofur looked shocked, shaking his head. “Lad, you really aren’t a Dwarf, are you? Erebor is the last home of the Dwarves.”

Bilbo felt his forehead wrinkle in lines of confusion. “I thought that was Erelin? Isn’t this the last Dwarf city left, these past hundred years or so?”

“Erebor isn’t a city,” Fíli said, voice quiet and almost reverent. “Erebor is a kingdom. It’s the last place Dwarves live free. They say it’s under a mountain that nearly touches the sky, and the walls surrounding the lands of Erebor are so high and thick that an army of Men could make war of them for years and never leave a scratch on a single Dwarf.”

“So why do Dwarves live here in Erelin at all, if such a place exists?” Bilbo asked skeptically. None of his (admittedly brief and undetailed) lectures on the history and culture of the Dwarves had ever mentioned Erebor - but it sounded familiar none the less.

“Would any of us live here by choice?” Bofur asked quietly. His eyes were sad and distant. “Surely you understand that Erelin is our prison, not our home. We work the mines and ships of Men because we have no choice, and they keep walls around the city because they know we would fly to Erebor if we could.”

“We would if we knew where it was, that is,” Fíli added. “It’s something else we’ve lost. I hope there might be something in these books that will help us find it again!” His eyes were burning now, and Bilbo sighed a little. He remembered having that fire, in his youth. Those days were long since past. “If we find this King, Durin if you like, perhaps he can lead us back to the mountain. Perhaps he can lead us to freedom.”

There came a ring at the brass doorbell, and Bilbo started, nearly knocking his plate over. “No-one should be out at this time!” he protested, but struggled to his feet, accepting the cane from Fíli’s hand. The infirmary was darkened, and Bilbo could hardly make out a shape through the peephole. He swung the half-door open.

It was the human boy from a few days earlier, huddled close to the door to stay out of the rain. He looked thoroughly miserable, and had a thin coat wrapped around his shoulders tightly. Bilbo sighed. 

“I’m closed for the night. Come back in the morning.”

“Please!” the lad said quickly, quiet and desperate. “I can’t! There’s no time in the morning. The tide is so early - I don’t dare miss the boats.”

Bilbo looked him over, sharp eyes noting his thin frame and the flush staining his cheeks. “You don’t look like you’re dying, lad. What’s so urgent?”

He held out his hand, where Bilbo’s wrappings were still in place, though stained and torn into useless scraps. “I think it’s taken sick. It hurts, and I cannot bend my fingers.” He looked around, over his shoulder, and then slumped against the wall, looking worn down. “I can wait here until the morning if you like.”

Bilbo cursed under his breath and slammed the top half of the door shut, then opened the whole thing together. “Come in and I’ll see to it. Just this once.”

The lad stared at him in shock, dark eyes wide, and Bilbo had to reach out and tug him in. A shock ran up his arm as he touched the boy, and Bilbo drew back, surprised and annoyed. The rain usually brought enough damp to the house to stop those damnable shocks, but they always took him by surprise when they happened. He closed the door behind the lad and turned to light the lamp, then limped over to the cupboard to get supplies. When he turned around, he was surprised to see the boy still huddled against the door, watching him warily. He beckoned impatiently. 

“Into the light and let me see it, then.”

The lad crept cautiously over, and held out his hand, keeping the rest of his body as far from Bilbo as possible. He was reminded suddenly of a puppy he had seen a the home of an unpleasant man in the Shire who was known for his foul temper. The dog shied away from all touches, even those of kind and gentle children, and looked ready to bolt at any moment. Indeed, as he glanced up at the wild hair and watchful dark eyes, Bilbo might have been looking at that puppy all over again. He peeled away the wrapping gently, hissing in sympathy as he saw the red, inflamed skin and felt the heat off the wound. His neat stitches had been half torn out, and the wound was far from clean.

“What’s your name, lad?” he asked as he began to clean the cut, easing the torn threads away from the flesh. 

“Don’t have one,” he murmured, never taking his eyes off Bilbo. 

“Everyone has a name,” Bilbo said distractedly. “I shan’t tell on you.”

“Foundlings don’t,” the boy insisted. Bilbo hummed a sympathetic note, and pressed deeply enough on the wound to make the boy yelp in pain.

“Sorry!” Bilbo said quickly. “It’s a nasty one you have here. I can clean and bandage it, and give you some herbs to help fight the fever and infection, but you need to rest. Nothing that will stress the wound or cause it to tear further for at least a fortnight.”

He laughed a little, quiet and despairing, and kept his distance from Bilbo. “You don’t know what it’s like on the ships. They don’t care if you’re hurt. Ropes and sails don’t mind a bit of blood.”

Bilbo knew that was true, and he knew that there was no real help for it, but he had to offer the advice. “If it gets bad again, come straight back and let me look after it, or you could lose the hand.” He finished his work and set about re-wrapping the injury, taking extra care this time. The boy nodded silently, and snatched his hand back as soon as Bilbo let go, cradling it to himself. He kept himself huddled into the smallest shape he could manage, and Bilbo found it hard to estimate his age and weight as he went to gather the herbs the lad would need. He was a small thing for a Man, no taller than Fíli, and Bilbo supposed he might not have reached his full growth yet - or perhaps he never would, with the lack of nutrition and proper care that foundling children often received. 

Something seemed very wrong in those thoughts, though, and Bilbo kept pausing and glancing over at the lad, who was now alternating between watching him carefully and looking over into the kitchen with wide, anxious eyes. The light and warmth streaming through the passageway were alluring, and Bilbo could hear the low rumble of voices and the occasional bright laugh floating in. The boy was staring at it almost hungrily, and Bilbo’s heart gave an unexpected pang. The lad was not his responsibility. His Mission in Erelin was to look after the Dwarves; Men were meant to look after their own. And besides, he had already done his duty to the lad. 

But his heart clenched at the thought of sending him away, and the buzzing, humming feeling in his head was nearly driving him mad. He looked at the lad again. There was no way this youngster could be tied to their cause, or their crisis, if that was a more accurate word. He shook his head at his own fancy, and pressed the herbs into the boy’s uninjured hand. 

“Boil that in water, half a handful at a time. Take it morning and evening until it’s all gone, and come back if there’s any pain or stiffness, right?” He went to put a friendly hand on the lad’s shoulder, but he shied away, backing up until his back was against the wall. Bilbo hesitated again. There was something in that expression, in the fear in those dark eyes, that made him lose his nerve. He heaved a sigh. “Look, why don’t you come in for a bit. There’s food and drink, and you can stay until morning.”

The boy swallowed hard, looking toward the kitchen with a longing that made Bilbo’s throat hurt, but he shook his head. “I can’t. I-” he hesitated, then threw open the door and darted out into the night, pausing halfway down Bilbo’s path to look back with a fierce, desperate desire. “Thank you,” he called quietly, and the end might have been a choked sob, and then he was gone. Bilbo let out a breath and closed the door slowly, feeling as though he had lost something important. The song in his head was melancholy, and he wished he could swat it away. 

He made his way back to the kitchen thoughtfully, and the Dwarves looked up curiously. 

“You were a long time,” Bofur said curiously. 

“Had to see to a patient’s hand,” Bilbo said morosely, sinking back into his seat with a groan. “Human lad. Very strange fellow. It’s a crime how they’re treated on those ships.”

Fíli scoffed, eyes narrowing in anger as he turned back to his page. “Don’t waste your pity on Men. They deserve whatever they do to each other, filthy bastards that they are.” His mouth twisted into an unpleasant smirk. “You should have left him to his pain, Mr. Baggins. They’d do no better for one of us.”

Bilbo turned away, looking out the window, and felt a rage in his veins. He had sometimes hated Men himself for their cruelty and lack of compassion, but this was the signal reason for his dislike. They had made the Dwarves unkind, made them into prisoners and criminals, until even a kind soul like Fíli could damn a child to suffering without blinking an eye. If there had been a god watching over the Dwarves, he had done them all a great disservice in letting them come under the power of Men.

Bofur stayed the night, happily stowed away in another of the rooms Fíli had cleaned out, and Bilbo woke to two voices screaming in fear and pain the next morning, before dawn broke. He huddled in his bed, stuffing his fingers into his ears, and waited until the screams had died away to listen carefully. They were talking in low voices above his head, clearly reassuring one another and comparing stories, and Bilbo left them to it. He half-floated in a dream state for a while, knowing all the while that he was almost awake, and tried to make sense of memories - dark, terrified eyes, and compassionate blue ones, and two figures who had been nearly inseparable. They half-faded when he woke, but the feeling of it remained, and he knew he had made a mistake the night before in letting the boy slip away. 

Bofur and Fíli were quiet and pale when he saw them that morning, and both disappeared while he was seeing to patients. Bilbo took it easily enough. Dwarves seemed to come and go rather as they chose, and he was not about to fight them. It was midafternoon before Fíli reappeared, stalking up to the open half-door and flinging his arms over it sulkily. Bilbo was startled, looking at him. His nose was bloody, and one eye was already beginning to swell shut. He hauled himself to his feet. 

“Get in a fight with a Man, did you?” he asked, squinting up at the tall Dwarf. 

“Not hardly,” Fíli said thickly, wincing as Bilbo started prodding at his injuries. “I went to find my uncle.”

“Oh?” Bilbo asked, interested. “And what was he like?”

“A drunken lout!” Fíli said angrily. “He was deep in his cups before noon, and tried to tell me he had no idea who I was. Claimed at first his name wasn’t even Thorin, until I pointed out that it was engraved on his door.” He crossed his arms, fury barely contained. “I tried to ask him about himself, about what he knew about me and what I might have lost, and he did this!” 

“Well,” Bilbo said pragmatically, relieved to find that Fíli’s nose was not broken, “I suppose that’s one more avenue we don’t have to explore. What did you say his name was?”

“Thorin,” Fíli said, huffing angrily. “Thorin Oakenshield.”

Bilbo’s head felt like it had been struck by a bolt of lightning, and he dropped his cane as his hands flew to his head. Images rushed in, of dark hair and grey, of blue eyes, and a sword, and a stone that glittered like malice. He fumbled blindly until he found a wall he could lean against and tried to get his breath back, finally lifting his head to stare at Fíli.

“He’s the one,” Bilbo said, certain beyond reason. “He’s the king.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took a wee while longer, but wound up a bit longer, so I think it all works out in the end!
> 
> Thank you guys so much for the lovely comments and support. I'm utterly taken with this world, and I'm so very glad to hear that there's interest out there. I mean, I would keep writing it if I were the only one reading - but it's so very much nicer to be able to share it!


	5. O Truth Unchanged, Unchanging

“What do you mean, he’s the king?” Fíli asked, staring blankly at Bilbo. “I’ve just said he’s an out of control drunk! He threw me out of his home, and near enough fell over his own feet doing it!”

“I don’t know!” Bilbo said angrily, cradling his head in his hands. It ached fiercely. “I just know he is! He’s the one who is meant to take you out of this place!”

Fíli shook his head dismissively. “If Durin has come back to us, why would he have come in the form of a drunken, angry Dwarf? Thorin has no armies, no followers - I doubt there is one Dwarf who will even speak to him in the streets! How could he ever lead us?”

Bilbo sighed, yanking the door open. It was opening much more easily these days than it had in many years, having been opened so many times of late. Fíli stalked inside, one hand going to his rapidly swelling eye, and Bilbo retrieved his cane and made for the medicine cupboard to find ointments and remedies to apply to the lad’s face. “I cannot tell you that,” he said grumpily. “I don’t know anything about Durin and Erebor and the rest. All I know is that Thorin Oakenshield is the king. You’re going to have to bring him here, I think.”

“Why, so he can beat me in front of company?” Fíli asked, pressing his lips tightly together as Bilbo applied the salve, and then shaking his head as Bilbo drew his hand away. “He is unreasonable! It will do us no good to speak to him here.”

Bilbo flung up his hands in exasperation. “Look at the pattern, boy! You came here, and then you began to remember, to dream of things that you shouldn’t have any memory of. Bofur came with an odd sensation that he should be here, and then he began to remember. I don’t understand why it’s happening, but clearly there is something about this place that is helping you all to piece things together. If anything will make Thorin change his ways and discover who he’s meant to be, surely it needs to be whatever has helped you in the same way!”

Fíli scowled, his fingers tapping an angry rhythm on the tabletop, and he gave a grudging nod. “I will try. Perhaps Bofur will come with me and add his voice - and his arms, if need be!”

Bilbo nodded and moved away to tidy up his supplies, but shot Fíli a sideways glance. “I heard, in the night. Both of you were shouting. Was it more of the same?”

Fíli wrapped his arms around himself slowly, nodding, but he didn’t look at Bilbo. “It’s mostly faded now, but it was so very cold. I thought I must have fallen into icy water, and I could not swim or find the light. When I woke, my hands were blue and shaking.” He held them up, and Bilbo looked at them appraisingly, but could see nothing wrong with them beyond nails that had been chewed down to stumps. “And look - the mark from yesterday is fading, too.” Indeed it was. As Fíli tugged at the clothes around his neck, Bilbo saw with relief that the bruise that had been so dark and angry the day before was lightening, taking on green and yellow hues at the edges, just like a normal bruise would in the process of healing. 

“But the scar remains?”

Fíli nodded. “It is unchanged.” He draped the fabric back in place, shrugging his shoulders uncomfortably. “Three times now, I have dreamed of different deaths, and each of them felt real. How is it possible?”

“I don’t know, lad,” Bilbo said, both sympathetic and annoyed - the later because he was growing very weary of giving the same answer again and again. He did not know anything, and it was more than a little vexing to be expected to have all the answers. He wasn’t even having the dreams.

Fíli sighed, and stared down at one ragged thumbnail. “Bofur dreamed of icy water, too, and his hands were as cold as my own. It is almost as though we were remembering the same death.”

“Look, unless Dwarves have some miraculous healing powers we Hobbits have never heard about, you haven’t actually died at all,” Bilbo said, a trifle snappish. “It’s perplexing, but you are alive and well.” He thought of going on, a small rant springing quickly to mind on the overdramatic tendencies of Dwarves in general, and the value of a peaceful life, but he was interrupted by a ring of the bell. It was getting to be something of a regular occurrence. He pushed past Fíli with a sigh and went to the door. The kind old watchmaker was there, and Bilbo smiled at him, feeling his annoyance fade. The old Dwarf had always been kind to him, particularly just after the trouble with his leg; it was he who had crafted the replacement watch and given it as a gift, when Bilbo’s own father’s watch had been destroyed. 

“Good morning, Master Balin,” he said cheerfully, already rummaging around for a new container of the salve that worked so well to soothe the old Dwarf’s eyes. “Gone through the last lot in rather a hurry, I see! You must be doing good business indeed!”

But there was no smile on the old Dwarf’s lined face now, and his kind eyes looked closer to tears than to the twinkle Bilbo knew of old. He shook his head slowly, long white beard wagging. “Oh, no, lad,” he said quietly. “I’m afraid there’s very little good business afoot anywhere just now.”

Bilbo felt the now-familiar spark and fizz begin in his head, and watched with trepidation as Balin put a hand to his head, pushing his hair aside to show a thin, jagged scar running across the whole length of his skill on one side, and Bilbo swallowed in sympathy. 

“Do you remember how you took that wound?” he asked gently. Balin eyed him steadily. 

“It came upon me in the night as I slept,” he said, almost conversationally. “I dreamed of a sword in the hand of a creature that was like no Dwarf or Man I had ever seen - nor Hobbit, either - and a blow that should have ended my life. I thought I could see the mark when I woke, but my eyes are not what they once were.”

Bilbo nodded, opening the door. “Come in, please. We’ll explain what we can, though there’s precious little we know.”

“We?” Balin asked. 

“You are not the only Dwarf to suffer such strange dreams in recent days,” Bilbo said wryly. “This is Fíli. I think you’ll find you have a great deal in common.” 

Balin stared at Fíli, eyes narrowed in concentration. “You look familiar, boy,” he muttered. “But there is something missing.”

“I’ve been saying that all along!” Fíli said cheerfully, and bowed in respectful greeting before offering to walk the old Dwarf through to the kitchen and put the tea on. Bilbo shooed them off, feeling a headache throbbing at his temples and wanting to see to it before it worsened. How many Dwarves were affected by this strange malady? Would he wind up with the whole city on his doorstep, all with symptoms he could neither explain nor treat? He fantasised for a moment about writing up the whole case and sending it to the Took as a referral, washing his hands of the whole matter - but then, that was madness, because Bilbo was clearly involved, too. He might not have the dreams or the scars, but he was remembering things he had no right to know, and there was the small matter of the buzzing in his head, and of the song he could neither reach nor dismiss from his mind. 

Perhaps he was just going mad. That might almost be preferable. 

He listened with half an ear as Fíli told Balin what they knew so far, little as it was, and Bilbo swallowed a tonic for his headache and tidied up the infirmary as he waited for it to take effect. Finally, the pain dulled and faded, and he made his way through to the kitchen. Fíli glanced up quickly as he came in, a strange melancholy fleeting over his face as he saw who it was - like he had been expecting someone else entirely - but then he flashed Bilbo a brilliant little smile that made him smile back automatically. Young people, Bilbo thought, and poured himself tea. 

“So,” Balin said evenly, looking at Fíli and Bilbo through narrowed eyes. “I hear from the lad that you are looking for a long-dead King, with the help of the forbidden cults, and that you hope this King will lead you to the legendary kingdom of Erebor and bring us all to freedom. This is correct?”

“I don’t know that any of it is correct,” Bilbo said sheepishly, scratching his head, “but it’s all we have so far. We don’t know how to explain the rest.” It all sounded more than a little ridiculous when spoken in such reasoned tones.

Balin leaned back in his chair, a little smile playing around the corners of his mouth, and Bilbo saw the familiar twinkle return to his eyes. “Laddie, I have been looking for one I could follow since I was no older than little Fíli here.”

Fíli gave a wordless squawk of protest, but they both ignored it. Balin nodded at Bilbo.

“What else shall we do? Must we wait for death to come on us slowly, here in Erelin? In the days that went before, Dwarves would have been ashamed to live as we do, and to die as we do - old and broken, in our beds, waiting for the end. Better a quick, sharp blow than this slow and dishonourable fading.”

“Then you are with us?” Fíli asked eagerly, leaning forward and taking hold of the old Dwarf’s forearm. 

“I am with the King,” he said easily, and patted Fíli’s hand. “As soon as we find him.”

It was a relief beyond what Bilbo had expected, and he sagged a little in his chair, feeling some of the weight lifted from his shoulders. Balin was old and wise, and much more suitable as a leader for this whole venture than a middle-aged Hobbit from the Shire could ever be. He poured more tea for all of them, and let the Dwarves talk about war and honour and nobility, while he considered what to make for tea, and wondered how many he should plan on feeding.

Bofur and Oin came by before the afternoon was up, bringing yet more books and papers, and Bilbo let them in without so much as a sigh. It was strange, but he was almost growing accustomed to their presence, until their absence seemed like the strange thing. He rummaged through the icebox until he found suitable meats and vegetables for a dinner for five, or possibly more, and set about preparing them, talking to the Dwarves as he did so.

“Fíli, I think you and Bofur should go back to Thorin and try to convince him to come here. Promise him food if it will help.”

“What’s happened?” Bofur asked, staring at Fíli’s bruised face with undisguised interest. “Family reunion not go as planned?”

“We’ll talk on the way,” Fíli said ruefully, hauling himself to his feet and dragging Bofur with him. “We have a supposedly legendary king to fetch.”

Bilbo heaved a sigh of relief that they were on their way with plenty of daylight left, and set to work in earnest, eager to get dinner preparations made before the evening rush on his infirmary. Balin and Oin fell in together like old friends, comparing dreams and scars, and then continuing on to talk about everything under the sun, it seemed. It was a slightly awkward conversation, with Oin’s deafness and Balin’s terrible eyesight, and something felt incredibly wrong as he watched them, two old Dwarves together. They were not meant to be infirm and faded this way. They were meant to be warriors, despite their age, ready to follow Thorin on his mad quest for - for what? The idea petered out, losing any coherence it had carried, and Bilbo stabbed a potato in frustration. 

It was bad enough that he did not share the dreams the rest carried, or the scars that at least served as some sort of proof that they were experiencing something real. All Bilbo had were nagging senses of confusion, and snatches of memory, and strange ideas that did not seem to come from his own brain. He racked his brain as he set the stew to simmering, trying to think of what he saw in his own dreams, and there was nothing. Just green, like endless peaceful fields rolling away under the sun, and light - a light more rich and beautiful than any his eyes had ever seen, even in his youth in the Shire. It was nothing solid to cling to, and the feeling of peace that washed over him at the memory vanished as soon as he opened his eyes. 

He excused himself to the infirmary as evening began to creep upon them, though he was not sure whether the elderly Dwarves had even heard him. They seemed to be getting along like old friends, chuckling over memories from their youths. Bilbo hoped that the nameless lad from the previous night might come by again. It was likely enough that he had damaged his hand on his ship, and if he came round, Bilbo was determined to sweep him inside and bring him into the gathering in the kitchen. He knew it was unlikely, but the memory of the boy had been bothering him all day, and it seemed like he might somehow be involved in whatever was going on with them. 

There were enough needy visitors to keep him busy, and Bilbo watched carefully for symptoms of the reported plague, but there were none to be seen. He did sigh, though, when his last guest sidled up to the door, looking uncommonly nervous. 

“I told you to buy a pair of gloves, lad,” he admonished. The Dwarf shook his head frantically, and leaned in close, not raising his voice above a whisper.

“No, sir! It’s not that! It’s -” he hesitated, looking frantically torn, and leaned in even closer. “I think there’s something wrong in my head, and if they find out, the Men, they’ll have me put away! I don’t want to go to the Asylum, sir! You have to help me!”

Bilbo looked at him intently, and felt the weight on his shoulders grow. “You’re having strange dreams,” he said tiredly, and rubbed at his eyes. “Memories that don’t seem to belong to you? That sort of thing?”

“Oh, yes, sir!” His voice was openly awed, and he stared at Bilbo with his mouth hanging open. “You’re an amazing Healer, sir, to be able to tell all of that at a look!”

“Inside,” Bilbo said wearily, and swung the door open with a practiced hand that worked the stiff bolts with ease, clearing his injured leg with just an inch to spare. “Kitchen’s just through there. You can meet the rest of my collection.” The Dwarf nodded gratefully and started away, tragically bad haircut marking him easily even in the gloom of the infirmary. Bilbo called after him. “What’s your name?”

“Ori, sir,” he said, bowing deeply two or three times. 

“Fine, then,” Bilbo said crossly, waving him off with an impatient hand. “Stop bobbing about, then, and go on through.” It was a bit terse, but Bilbo was beginning to feel a little panicky. Forget the supposed plague at the docks - he was having something of a plague on his hands already, and it seemed to be spreading fast. 

So he was almost relieved when Fíli and Bofur returned without Thorin, as five Dwarves in his kitchen were rather enough for him to be getting on with. He would have to request more supplies from Governance at this rate, and hope they didn’t get curious as to what had happened. But dinner that night was a surprisingly delightful affair. Ori wasn’t much older than Fíli, as it turned out, and they struck up a friendship very quickly. Oin and Balin were still reminiscing about the good old days, before Men had begun truly oppressing the Dwarves, and Bilbo was amazed by some of their stories. The Erelin of more than a century before sounded like an entirely different city, where Dwarves were freer and kinder, and the sun did not have to struggle through a century of accumulated filth and smog to reach the streets. 

“Such a shame,” he found himself saying, shaking his head. “To have come to this? There is nothing of that joy left in Erelin now. I have been sorry for coming here since the day I stepped through the Gate.”

“Oh, now, that’s not true, laddie,” Balin said gently. “But I think you have missed a great deal, alone in your house here. There is still hope in Erelin, and joy, and kindness - but you will not find it in your dusty books. It is in the hearts of the Dwarves who still live here. We have not all turned to stone.”

And Bilbo knew that was true. He had known it all along, of course, and that he was shutting himself away from all of that. He had been little more than a ghost for the last nine years, haunting his cold empty house out of fear and anger, and resentment at the loss of freedom that came with his injury. 

Now, it was as if life was coming back to him - forcing it’s way back, more like, though he wasn’t fighting hard any longer. The Dwarves had brought warmth and companionship to his home, and to Bilbo’s utter shock, there was laughter, too. Bofur told jokes that had them all roaring with laughter, slapping their knees and throwing their heads back - and Bilbo found himself laughing, too. It was an odd, creaky thing at first - more a memory of laughter than the thing itself - but then it burst forth as full and free as any of theirs, and Bilbo was amazed. He knew he had not laughed, not beyond a sarcastic chuckle, since he had left the Shire, and it was almost hard to stop again. His sides hurt, and his eyes watered, but Bilbo felt like he had rid himself of some vile thing. 

He was sorry that the human lad never came back, because he thought he might have done well to see some genuine happiness in the world, but the evening came to a close without another summons at Bilbo’s door. 

“So,” he finally said, stretching his arms and yawning. “Now we are a company of six.”

“Seven, if we ever fetch Thorin back,” Fíli said, much more cheerful now that he’d had a good meal. He and Bofur had returned close-lipped, and said nothing beyond a shake of their heads in response to the enthusiastic questions. 

“We’ll try again tomorrow,” Bofur promised. “Early, I think, before he’s had a chance to do much drinking.”

Fíli sighed, dropping his face into his hands for a moment. “We shall have to bring him back tied in a sack.”

“Never fear, my prince,” Bofur said easily. “We’re strong enough to manage one infuriated Dwarf who would be King, aren’t we?”

“How’s that?” Bilbo asked sharply, leaning forward. “Why did you call him prince?”

Bofur looked startled, thinking back over his own words, and his brow furrowed. “I have no idea.”

It was almost a nice change, hearing those words out of another’s mouth. 

The Dwarves were all insistent that they remembered nothing from their dreams, or anywhere else that could not be explained, but Bilbo had his doubts. Fíli, at the very least, was being changed by the dreams, Bilbo knew - and in more than his body. He stood taller than he once had, and not with the odd stiffness of a Dwarf who had been brought up by scholars; more like a boy growing into himself. If he was sometimes more solemn and quiet, gazing at the flickering light of a lamp with a distant expression, then he was also more prone to laugh deeply and heartily, without the shallow veneer of sophistication he had worn when Bilbo first met him. He seemed older and younger all at once, and Bilbo wondered who he might be, when it was all over. 

Fíli seemed to be looking for something, Bilbo was beginning to notice. He doubted the lad knew it himself, from the half-distracted way he would glance around and then go back to the task at hand. But it seemed to Bilbo that he was constantly turning to share a look or a word with someone at his side who was not there, or sending a hand blindly into the air beside him, half expecting to meet another at his side, and finding only emptiness. Indeed, the other Dwarves almost seemed to see that emptiness, too, and shied away from it just as if there had been someone else there. 

They went to bed that evening, filling yet more rooms in Bilbo’s house, and he told himself firmly that he would have to send them away to their own homes well before dark the next night. They could not very well leave after eventide, though, for fear of the patrols, and he would not have them arrested. Not now. 

The house almost seemed warmer that night, and Bilbo slept more easily than he had in years - at least until his rest was broken by five screaming, thrashing dwarves, like the world’s hairiest and most annoying dawn chorus. He was sympathetic to their plight, truly he was, but it was difficult to remain so at such an hour of day. And then, to add insult to injury, they all went back to sleep, leaving him awake and stumbling through his morning routine to the gentle chorus of snores from the rooms above. He had finished with the morning’s patients before the Dwarves came trooping down to eat breakfast. 

They exchanged horror stories over breakfast, showing off new scars that looked like battle wounds, for the most part. Bilbo scowled at the eggs he was cooking. The lingering image of green and light from his dreams did nothing to help him understand the situation any further, or to make him feel like a proper part of their little company. He ate quietly, feeling irrationally annoyed, and shooed Ori and Balin off to work with impatient gestures. 

Fíli came around behind Bilbo and clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder, shaking him a bit. “Well, shall we?”

“Shall we what?” He blinked up at the tall young Dwarf, who chuckled. 

“Head off to see Thorin? It’s not far, but I expect it’ll take a bit longer with your leg.” He frowned down at the mangled limb in question. “Or perhaps we should find a cab instead? They’ll carry you anywhere, I’m sure, if you tell them it’s for medical purposes.”

Bilbo blinked at him, confused beyond words. “Fíli, I’m not going anywhere. You and Bofur are meant to bring him back.”

“Ah, but how well did that go yesterday?” Bofur asked, looking regretful and slyly amused in turns. “No, I think you’d best come with us. The chances of success seem much higher with you at our side.”

“I don’t go out,” Bilbo said shortly. “I don’t leave the house. I’m certainly not going after a violent drunkard of a Dwarf!”

“That’s just absurd,” Fíli said reasonably. “Look, you won’t be in any danger. We’ll be there to look after you!”

“No!” Bilbo said, beginning to feel angry. “No, no. I won’t do it. This is where I am, and this is where I will stay.” He thumped his cane down hard on the wooden floor in emphasis, and the others startled. 

“It’s not so much to ask, is it?” Bofur pleaded, eyes wide and disarming. “Come with us - just to talk to him, and then we’ll come straight back again. For all we know, you’re the key to all of this! We’ve got to wake him up again, and you’re the one who seems to be doing it.”

“What part of the word no do Dwarves find it impossible to understand?” Bilbo roared. His blood was rushing in his ears, hands curled into fists; the thought of stepping outside his door was too much to bear. “Haven’t I done enough for you? Haven’t I already given you enough?” He spun around to stare at each of them in turn, feeling something wild within him. “I gave you everything! You took my heart, and you sent me home alone!” He stalked closer to Fíli and poked him hard in the chest with a finger, rocking the lad back on his heels. “You made me BURY you! I watched them pile rocks on your graves, you and Kíli and Thorin, and I had to go home again after that and live a life, and do you have any idea how difficult that was? Do you have the first inkling how much I wished-” his breath caught in a sob, choking off his words, and he had to turn away and struggle to compose himself, breathing heavily. The three Dwarves were breathing loudly, too, and the atmosphere in the room had taken on an uncomfortably thick tension.

“Bilbo?” Bofur called softly after a moment. “What did that mean? How have you buried him?”

Bilbo shrugged, feeling utterly worn out, drained by the moment. “I don’t know. It was clear for just a moment, and I still know it was true - but I have no memory of that.”

Fíli had dropped back to slump against a wall, and now slid quietly down it until he was curled in on himself, head buried against his knees and breathing deeply. Shock, Bilbo thought, and started forward. “Fíli, lad?” he called, kneeling down and placing a hand on the Dwarf’s knee. 

Fíli raised his head, and Bilbo was startled to see that his face was streaked with tears. They were falling steadily through red-rimmed eyes, and Fíli didn’t even seem aware that he was weeping.

“What’s wrong?” Oin called loudly. Bilbo shook his head. One more thing he didn’t know. 

“You said,” Fíli whispered, sounding half broken. “You buried us. Me, and Thorin, and Kíli.”

Bilbo nodded slowly. “But I don’t know what I meant. I don’t know who Kíli was.”

“I do,” Fíli said quietly, and let the tears continue to fall freely. “He’s my brother. Kíli is the thing that’s been missing all along.”

Bilbo’s heart gave a mighty thump, and he smiled down at Fíli, patting his knee gently. “See, I knew you’d figure it out!”

But Fíli was shaking his head wildly, half-crazed. “No, you don’t understand! I forgot him! I forgot that I even had a brother! And now I can’t remember his face, or his voice, or what he was like - just that he was my brother, and that I have been looking for him every day of my life.”

Bofur knelt down too, his eyes so gentle, and took hold of Fíli’s hand. “So we’ll find him. If you’re here, he’s got to be here too, somewhere.” He clasped Fíli’s hand tight between both of his own, and smiled kindly. “We will find him.” It sounded like a prayer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not to worry - we'll get to meet Thorin in the next chapter! And it's not so much of a secret to us where Kili is, but let's see how long it takes them to work things out, shall we? :D
> 
> Seriously, my most sincere and devout thanks to everyone who's been reading! I have no words to thank you properly.


	6. Commands Our Flesh to Dust

“So we really do have to go back and see Thorin,” Fíli said after a while. They had given him time and space to get control of his emotions, and he had pulled himself together admirably. Bilbo thought absently that if Bofur’s words had been true, if Fíli had once been a prince, then there were times it shone through in his bearing and mannerisms. This was such a time. “He must know what’s happened to my brother.”

“Is he, though?” Bofur asked, honest curiosity in his tone. “Is he your brother here and now?”

“What does that mean?” Fíli asked, a little dangerously. His eyes narrowed, and Bilbo made a mental note not to touch lightly on the subject of this missing brother. “Of course Kíli is my brother. What else would he be?”

Bofur sat down heavily, and the rest drew in close, gradually taking seats at the table. Oin drew as close as he could, his hearing not suited for quiet conversations. “It’s becoming obvious that what we are experiencing is not normal. We remember deaths we haven’t died, and lives we haven’t lived - but I think we must have.” One hand crept beneath the sleeve of his tattered shirt, rubbing at the rough scars on his arm. “We have lived before, and died before, and now we are waking up from the dream that was this life.”

“I suppose that makes as much sense as any other explanation,” Bilbo said hesitantly. He eased himself onto a chair, propping his cane up against the table. “I don’t have the same dreams, though. Maybe it’s different for Hobbits than Dwarves?”

“This isn’t a common thing for Dwarves, either,” Oin cut in loudly, looking back and forth between them skeptically. “We’re not in the habit of living over and over, lad.”

“Aren’t we?” Fíli asked, tipping his head to one side. A thick golden braid slipped from behind his ear to dangle freely in midair, swinging back and forth a little as he moved. “Don’t the old legends say that the Fathers of the Dwarves returned to their people again and again - that Durin returned seven times?”

Bofur grinned cheekily at him, nudging him with an elbow. “And here I thought you were too rational and learned to believe in the old stories!”

Fíli’s ears coloured, and he looked down quickly. “I’ve been reading the accounts you brought, looking for anything that might help us make sense of this. I’m not saying I believe all of it - Mahal and the rest - but it’s a story that’s been handed down for thousands of years. Maybe there is some truth to it.”

“We’re not Durin, lad,” Oin said dourly. “None had best be looking to us for guidance.”

“So,” Bilbo mused, pressing his fingertips together beneath his nose, “what does that make us? Why has this happened to us? And why are you just starting to remember now?”

Bofur pointed at him, and Bilbo was surprised. “You’re the one waking us up. It wasn’t until we met you that any of this began. I’ll wager there are others out there, too, just waiting to wake up and remember who they are.” His eyes became a little distant, thoughtful and weary, and he glanced at Fíli. “Nothing like you, lad, but I have this odd feeling I’m waiting for someone to come back, too. Family or friend, I don’t know, but we are none of us meant to be alone the way we have been.”

“Then what did you mean, before, that Kíli mightn’t be my brother?” Fíli demanded, dropping a fist to the table with a solid thump.

“Well, did you ever have a brother? Here, in this life, I mean?”

“I- no,” Fíli admitted, brow furrowed in thought. “Not that I recall. I was very young when I entered Durin’s Academy, and I remember very little of my life before that. Glimpses of my mother, I suppose, and another Dwarf who seemed very tall indeed, to my young eyes.” 

“So, what is to say that we are all the people we remember being?” Bofur pressed, leaning forward. “You are no prince now, and yet I recall that you were my prince, and I swore fealty to your family. Perhaps this Kíli is still somewhere here, in Erelin, but there is nothing to say that he is born of your same parents.” 

Something tugged unnervingly at the back of Bilbo’s mind, and he frowned, reaching up to scratch his head. It was almost as though he did know something about this missing brother - something that told him, beyond a doubt, that he was there in the city. But he couldn’t put a face to the name, nor anything more than a vague sense of life and joy, ill-ended. He shook his head sharply. 

“Well, what are we to do? Do we beard the lion in his den and drag this Thorin out?” The words came out sharper than he meant.

“Yes!” Fíli insisted, face growing set in stern lines. It made him look twice his age. “If he is the king you think him, we need him; if he might know anything about my brother, I need him twice as much.”

Bilbo looked at him closely for a moment, this lad who was already a stranger to the Dwarf he had been when he walked through Bilbo’s door less than a week before. He stood taller, a heavier weight on his shoulders, and yet, as Bilbo looked at him, he felt like he was seeing half a Dwarf. He truly was missing a part of his heart, and there was only one solution to that problem. Heaving a sigh, Bilbo stood up, grasping his cane with a determination he did not feel, and feeling his heart begin to beat twice as fast. 

“Then we should go, now. Before we are at risk of being out after dark.”

They gaped up at him, and Bilbo enjoyed a tiny moment of delight at having his head stand above theirs as they all sat around his table.

“You just shouted at us,” Bofur pointed out hesitantly. “About how you don’t leave this house. And now you’re planning to go?”

“Yes.” Bilbo fiddled with the brass end of his cane, looking at the pattern worn into the metal by nearly a decade of use. “I have been safe here a good long while. And I don’t particularly want to leave, you understand. But,” he looked up, directly at Fíli, and felt a surge of compassion that he had not allowed himself in many years, “I am a Healer. I took an Oath to help wherever I could, and the Dwarves of Erelin are my responsibility.”

They nodded solemnly, without celebration, but there was a depth of gratitude in their eyes that Bilbo treasured. He thumped his cane on the floor a few times. “That’s quite enough lollygagging! Up you get, my Dwarves, and let us find this Thorin.”

“I think we should gather some backup on the way,” Bofur declared, hopping up and moving with a startling alacrity. “I know a Dwarf who’s more than a bit handy in a tight spot. He’s promised to keep anyone from beating my head in, should it be necessary.”

“It may be necessary,” Fíli said, a touch gloomily. “Bothering my uncle for a third time, and with extra company this time? He’s not likely to take it well.”

“Right, then,” Bofur said, rubbing his hands together, and clapping his horrible hat onto his head. “Oin, go back to the Holdfast. If anyone comes by in need, do what you can for them. I’ll be back before dark.” They dropped fisted hands on one another’s shoulders in a brief and semi-violent farewell, and then Bofur and Fíli were waiting on Bilbo’s porch, looking at him expectantly. 

He walked to the door with as much certainty as he could muster, but found himself hung up on the doorstep. It had been nine years since he had stepped so much as a foot out of the huge, chilly house, and his throat and chest seemed to tighten as he faced it now. His heart hammered loudly, and Bilbo found his hand slippery on the handle of his cane. The Dwarves were watching him sympathetically, and Bilbo closed his eyes. He remembered, so very vividly, the moment he had stepped out of his door to make the journey to Erelin, and the mingled excitement and terror that had nearly kept him inside forever. And then, as fast as thought, that memory was overlaid with another - one of a round, green door, and a flight made into the wide world without hesitation or hindrance on the doorstep. He had stepped out into the world then, and returned a different Hobbit; his heart had never been the same. 

His foot hit the rough weave of the mat with a solid thud, and the second followed, and Bilbo Baggins closed his door and walked out into Erelin. 

“It’s not far from here to where my friend lives,” Bofur assured him, as he and Fíli took up positions on either side of Bilbo. It was almost like having bodyguards, and Bilbo breathed a bit easier, surrounded by such friendly warmth. “We can hail a ride from there if needs be.”

Bilbo just nodded, jerkily, and tried to concentrate on breathing evenly as he moved farther and farther from his place of refuge. His friends kept quiet as they moved, and mostly served to shield him from curious eyes. Bilbo had watched the streets around his house for nearly a decade, seeing them change and grow ever more dingy and derelict, but still - he had lived in one of the nicer parts of Erelin, where the houses were sturdily built and well maintained. It only took a few minutes of walking to find himself in a part of the city he had never seen - one which looked very different to what he had known.

The houses in his part of the city were constructed of brick and wood, and had tall glass windows and broad porches, with wide chimneys stretching up above the roofs. There was none of that to be seen in the darker parts of the city. Here, the structures almost seemed to have been hewn from the ground and the sides of the hills that made up Erelin - but these were not in the comfortable style that Hobbits had fancied for so long. They were awkward, almost threatening things, piled high and dark on all sides, crowding in on one another. Tall structures rose higher than the houses like Bilbo’s, and he could see small windows hewn in the rock far above street level, like tenement buildings in the earth itself. It was distinctly alien, and Bilbo kept close to his companions. There were reasons he disliked being a Hobbit in Erelin.

Finally, just as his leg was beginning to throb, Bofur stopped and crept over to an unmarked door that looked the same as all the rest, to Bilbo’s eye. He gave a complicated little knock, then stepped back a pace, waving to Bilbo and Fíli to keep their distance. The door was flung open with such sudden violence that Bilbo jumped in fright, and Fíli grabbed his shoulder for moral support. 

The Dwarf who apparently lived behind the dull grey door stepped out, hands bunched in tight fists, looking ready for a fight, and Bilbo stifled a groan. He knew this Dwarf! The bald head and tattoos were almost enough to make him certain, but it was the dingy white of his own neat bandages on the Dwarf’s arm that settled the matter for him. He had patched the fellow up after a bad brawl a few days earlier, and received nothing but disdain and veiled threats of violence in return. The Dwarf scowled at Bofur.

“It’s not a place or an hour for you to be abroad, Delver,” he growled, but there was a respect in the words that surprised Bilbo. He looked to Fíli in confusion.

“Delver’s what they’re called - the religious leaders,” Fíli hissed in a nearly inaudible whisper. “Refers to them seeking the truth in the dark places - and also the fact that they live deep underground. Close to the stone, close to Mahal - that’s the thinking.” He gave a shrug, as though it didn’t matter to him. 

Bilbo nodded, but his eyebrows went up a bit in surprise. He wouldn’t have taken this scrapper for the religious type. 

“Dwalin,” Bofur said, grinning up at the man and offering him the sign of Mahal; Dwalin returned it, but was watching the streets carefully as he did so. “I’m here for your protection. We’re about to go speak with a fellow who has a bit of a habit of making his visitors feel unwelcome, and I’d rather not wind up with my ears around my ankles.”

Dwalin grunted, and twisted his hands so that his brass knuckledusters glinted in the dim light. “Awfully impious, hitting a Delver. I’d best see to his spiritual wellbeing.” A hint of amusement glinted in his eyes, and he lifted his chin sharply, gesturing to Bilbo and Fíli. “Who are these, then?”

“Fíli, at your service,” Fíli offered, bowing in the traditional manner; Dwalin followed suit, staring at them closely, and didn’t break eye contact even as he bent down. “And this is Mister Baggins, a Hobbit Healer of great repute.”

“We’ve met,” Bilbo said, a little short. “How is the arm, then?”

Dwalin’s hand went to his injury, but he didn’t look down. “I have known you in another time,” he said thoughtfully. “When we were not as now.”

Fíli gave a startled gasp, breathing in sharply, and Bofur grabbed Dwalin’s sleeve in surprise. Bilbo just rolled his eyes.

“Should I even be surprised any longer? It seems I am doomed to have known every Dwarf in the city in some other life!” He eyed Dwalin, shaking his head. “You might have been a little kinder when last we met, given this supposed prior acquaintance.”

“I did not remember it then,” Dwalin rumbled, but Bilbo thought he looked a bit ashamed. “Nor do I remember it in full, now - but you are familiar to me from a greener time, and if you require my protection, I will give it.”   
He shut his door behind him and joined them, taking up a position behind them, and Bilbo had to repeatedly remind himself that this was a friend. He seemed to loom over them, and Bilbo tried to take it as comfort rather than threat. 

“How far is it to this place?” Bilbo asked, feeling his knee begin to protest the strain of dragging his mangled leg through motions it was unaccustomed to making. 

“Maybe a quarter of an hour on foot,” Fíli reported. He looked worriedly at Bilbo. “That will hurt you, won’t it? Here-” he pushed them to a stop, and darted off toward the wider main streets. 

“What’s the matter with it?” Dwalin asked bluntly, staring at Bilbo’s leg. The damage could not be seen through his trousers, but it was evident in the way he stood and moved, and the cane was something of a dead giveaway. “Were you born mishewn?”

“Of course not!” Bilbo snapped, glaring up at the huge Dwarf. “I had a run-in with a very angry Dwarf who had a personal grudge against Hobbits. I’m afraid he yelled all sorts of abusive things before tossing me through a window.” He shuddered at the memory, suddenly feeling like he was back there, huddled on the ground in agony as Dwarves watched on, some pulling his attacker away, others hurrying to offer what help they could. The leg had broken on impact, white bone pushing up through muscle and skin, and the glass had cut deeply. Bilbo had thought, then, that he would die there in a pool of his own blood, agony racing through every nerve. If it had been one of his patients who had turned up in the infirmary looking like this, he probably would have taken the leg off; he knew it was beyond his ability to heal. But he could not remove his own leg, and there was no-one he trusted to help him. He had wound up trapped in his own mangled body, and then in his house, cut off from what life and companionship might have been found even in this dark, dirty city. 

He shook his head, pushing all of that away, and stared stonily up at Dwalin. “So I don’t want to hear about the evils of Men from you, you understand? It was clear you had little love for Halflings, even when you needed treatment at my hands, and Dwarves are far from blameless in the ills done to others.” 

Dwalin tilted his head, acknowledging the accusation, but Bilbo thought there was a sadness there that he had not expected. He put a fist to his broad chest, above his heart, and inclined his head solemnly to Bilbo. “You have my word. If ever we find the Dwarf who has caused you this harm, I will make him pay for the injury in kind.” His eyes were very sad when he looked up, and the deep voice dropped to a quiet rumble. “I would have protected you, if I had known.”

Part of Bilbo could not help but wonder what it was this Dwarf remembered of him from those greener times, that made such a fierce and unfriendly-seeming fellow so kind toward him now. He would not ask, though, as the greater part of him was somehow terrified of what those memories might contain. He nodded awkwardly instead, fidgeting with his cane, and wondering where Fíli had gotten to. 

That question, at least, was answered quickly as a little black coach rattled up beside them, and Fíli popped his head out, motioning to the others to join him. Bilbo accepted assistance in climbing up into the dim confines of the transport, breathing heavily through the pain it caused him, and rested his head against the thinly padded cushion of the seatback. Fíli leaned forward to give directions as Bofur and Dwalin squeezed into the coach, making for a rather tight fit. 

The coach rattled forward, pulled by two steady little ponies, and Bilbo was relieved to find the ride surprisingly smooth. For all of the disrepair and squalor of Erelin, it had to be said that the Dwarves knew their way with stone, and the streets were all paved with such smooth exactness that there was scarcely a flaw to be found. It was a quiet ride, all of them lost in their own thoughts, and Bilbo kneaded the muscles of his leg, willing them not to cramp up with the brief rest. The windows in the coach were small and dingy with the dirt of the city, and he could make out little more than flashes of light and dark outside, and the sounds of various factories as they sped past. He didn’t much want to look at it, though, and kept his attention fixed on his leg, breathing as evenly as he could manage, and trying not to remind himself that he now had no idea how to find his way back to his own house, should he need to. 

The place where the coach finally stopped looked scarcely different from where they had found Dwalin - perhaps a little more squalid, if anything. They climbed out, and Bilbo dug in his pocket for change for the driver, knowing full well that his companions were not likely to have much to spare. The cabbie caught his arm, though, and shook her head firmly. 

“No, sir, no charge - not for the Healer!” She smiled sweetly at him, patting his hand. “You saved my da’s life when he was caught in a slide in the mines. We’ll never be able to repay you, but you’ll not pay me a single coin.” 

The coach pulled away into the gloomy light of the afternoon, and Bilbo wondered briefly who it had been that he saved. So many Dwarves had come to him after accidents in the mine, and he thought he had managed to save more than he lost, though not by a wide margin. They faded into one another, after a while, all worn down by the work and the misery and the darkness of the city. 

“Right,” Fíli said, sounding nervous. He clapped his hands together too-heartily, and strode over to a low door with his shoulders pushed back. “Thorin’s home.”

Bilbo saw runes scratched into the door that, presumably, indicated Thorin’s name, but he had never learned to read Dwarvish runes. So few Dwarves used them now, and they were generally used for Khuzdul words he never would have been allowed to learn, regardless. If there were medical texts by Dwarves of older days, they were closed books to Bilbo, and he had never bothered seeking them out. 

Fíli raised a hand and knocked, looking like he would like to cringe backward, but he kept his place. Dwalin moved ponderously to his side, towering over the youngster with his arms folded across his chest, frowning threateningly at the dull stone. After a minute of no response, he thumped the stone hard with a great fist, making something of a racket. 

The Dwarf who stumbled to open the door, growling something very much unlike a welcome, looked very little like the majestic figure Bilbo had seen in his flash of memory, if that was what it had been. He still had long, dark hair that was streaked with silver, but this time, it was greasy and matted, tied up in a rough knot behind his head. His beard was long and ragged, and the brilliant blue eyes that Bilbo had recalled were bloodshot and haunted, and looked on them without focusing properly. The smell of sweat and cheap alcohol was thick on him, and Bilbo knew at once that he must have been wrong - this was not the Dwarf to lead them. He backed away one pained step, then another, until he stepped directly on Bofur’s foot and froze, staring unblinking at the Dwarf. 

“Bilbo? What’s the matter?” Bofur put a kind hand on his shoulder; he must have been able to feel the way Bilbo was shaking.

“He’s not the one we want,” Bilbo said, voice choked with rage. 

“What do you mean? You said he was!” Fíli was by their side in a moment, looking confused and slightly frightened. “This is Thorin, I swear.”

“I don’t care what he’s calling himself,” Bilbo said evenly, trying to keep his words level. “That is the Dwarf who attacked me. I will have nothing to do with him.”

Dwalin stared at him, then back to the Dwarf who was half-hanging on the doorframe to keep himself upright. “Thorin?” he asked, voice all uncertainty, and Thorin nodded heavily, eyes suspicious and unfriendly. 

“I am. Now, leave.”

A huge, muscled arm shot out and grabbed Thorin by the front of his unclean tunic, and Dwalin hauled him into the house without a word. Bofur and Fíli had both turned to stare at Bilbo, shock written on their honest faces.

“Are you sure it was him?” Fíli asked, looking unreasonably hopeful. “I’m sure many Dwarves look similar to you, and it’s been a good many years since it happened…”

“You don’t forget,” Bilbo said coldly. “Not something like that. I tried to offer assistance when I saw he was ill, though I thought it was from the drink. He cursed me for a useless Halfling and a traitor - to what, I do not know - and threw me from him with all his might.” His hands were shaking with rage, and he clasped them together tightly on the handle of his cane. 

“We’ll get to the bottom of this,” Bofur told him, and there was no amusement in it. His face was set in grim lines. “Let us talk to him, Bilbo. Something has happened to him, but he is Fíli’s uncle, and you knew his name. He must be important to us, somehow.”

“You can speak to him as much as you would like,” Bilbo spat. “I am going back to the house, before he destroys anything more of what little I have left.”

Fíli darted in front of him, eyes pleading. “I am so very sorry for what he has done. As his kin, I will do whatever I can to make up for it. But, Bilbo, please - if there is anything of the Dwarf you remembered in him, we have to wake it up! We need him!”

“I have no need of such a Dwarf.” Bilbo shook his head, amazed that they could even ask. 

“Yes, you do!” Something seemed to snap in Fíli, and he stood tall, looking every inch a prince even in his normal clothes. “You took an Oath to Heal, and to the Dwarves of Erelin. We are sick and dying, all of us, and this Dwarf is the best chance we have to find our hope again! You must help him, to save us all.”

Bilbo shook his head stubbornly, but Bofur squeezed his shoulder, and looked at him with great compassion. “The lad isn’t wrong, Bilbo.” He smiled a little, though it was deeply sad. “There are reasons for the things that happen, though we may not understand them.”

He huffed angrily, but did not run. The last thing he wanted to do was enter that house and see the Dwarf who had caused him such pain - and yet, there was a memory etched inside his mind that he could not shake, of the very same Dwarf - but his eyes were kind and full of regret, and Bilbo had held his hand as he died. The memory of the sorrow he had felt was only a shadow, but he knew there must have been a reason for such grief. He had mourned Thorin Oakenshield once, and so there must have been some good to him. He did not know what good he could do, what power there might be in him to help these Dwarves find themselves again, but somehow he felt he could not refuse - not when there was a shadow on his heart that he knew had followed him for the rest of his life, once upon a time.

“Keep him away from me,” Bilbo finally said. His fingers played over Balin’s watch, reminding himself that the watch he had lost in the attack had been replaced with something entirely different, but perhaps stronger, perhaps better. He put his cane out and marched forward, entering Thorin’s dark little cave of a room without a flinch. 

To the back of the room, he could see Dwalin methodically ducking Thorin’s head into a barrel of cold water over and over, leaving him dripping and stuttering, but at least marginally more sober. The place was little short of squalour, and Bilbo wrinkled his nose as he looked around. It was clearly the home of just one Dwarf, and not a particularly fastidious one, at that. Empty bottles were on every surface, and there was a single hard chair in front of a tiny table, both apparently carved from stone. The only concession to comfort in the entire dwelling space was a fur thrown on the floor in one corner, which looked like it must serve as his bed. It was certainly not where a king ought to live, Bilbo thought with disgust. 

“You!” Thorin growled, his face twisted in drunken confusion and rage. “How can you be here?” He jabbed an angry finger at Bilbo, who stood his ground and kept his chin high. “You’re not him. You can’t be.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Bilbo said coolly. “I’m here because your nephew asked me to come and see you.”

“No!” Thorin roared, pulling against Dwalin’s restraining arms, but he held firm. “You can’t be here! You are never here!”

Bilbo sighed and blinked up at Bofur, who was staring at Thorin in shock. “This is clearly going well. Can I leave now?”

“No, hang on,” Fíli said, going over to stand just out of Thorin’s reach, arms crossed over his chest. “What are you talking about, uncle?”

“I am no uncle of yours,” Thorin snapped. “I have seen to that! Take your cursed Hobbit and leave me in peace!”

“Look, I think I rather deserve an explanation,” Bilbo said, stalking forward a pace or two. “You said that before, when you were destroying my life - cursed me, and said I was a traitor. Why?”

Thorin stopped struggling, slumping heavily against Dwalin. He would not look at Bilbo. “You look very like someone I once knew,” he said after a long while. The words were rough, as if torn from him against his will. “It is wrong, seeing his face in this cursed place.”

“It’s not my fault I’m here,” Bilbo argued, but he was only half listening to his own words. Was it wise, he wondered, to try to explain to this angry, drunken Dwarf that they believed they were - what? Spirits of dead Dwarves, and a Hobbit, reborn again? The dead, come back to life? He had no words to explain the concept, since he barely understood it himself. “We just want to help,” he said, though the sincerity of his tone might be questionable. 

Thorin slumped down into his chair, and Dwalin let him, though he kept a hand fisted in Thorin’s shirt to keep him from any sudden violence. 

“There is no help,” he muttered, staring bleakly at the empty bottles lined up in front of him. “Not for me, or my people. Not for any of the Dwarves.” He looked up at Bilbo, eyes wild and lost. “You should leave while you can, Halfling. Erelin is no place for the living.”

“Uncle,” Fíli said firmly, coming to kneel at Thorin’s side, looking up at him pleadingly. “Where is my brother?”

Thorin recoiled at that, staring down at Fíli in startled horror. “Who told you of him? What do you know?”

Fíli laughed bitterly, loss etched into his young face. “Now? Nothing. But I know that once he was as close to me as my own heart, and I have been looking for him my entire life. Where is Kíli, Uncle?”

Thorin ran both hands over his face, looking worn beyond belief. His hands were shaking, Bilbo noted with clinical detachment. “I had hoped you would never know to look for him. You were so young…”

“Then you do know!” Fíli brightened, and grabbed Thorin’s hand, all excitement. “Tell me where he is!”

“Lost,” Thorin said. His voice was empty, and Fíli froze. “I gave him into the care of another, and he was taken. He is gone, and I cannot find him.” 

Bilbo turned slowly to look at Bofur, who was gaping, open-mouthed, at Thorin. “Was that the babe? The child who was left on my doorstep?”

Thorin nodded slowly, desolation in every line of his face. “I thought if any could raise him to kindness, to peace, it would be you, old friend. I thought you might both be spared this time - that you might find peace in our waning days.”

“I have never met you before!” Bofur protested, and it was Bilbo’s turn to put a hand on his shoulder as he became distraught. “I didn’t know where he came from, and when they took him -” he broke off, shaking his head; his eyes were bright with unshed tears. “I let Men take him - the last of the Dwarves. Mahal smite me, I did not know!”

Fíli had bowed his head low at the news, until it nearly touched his uncle’s leg, and Bilbo watched as Thorin raised a hand as if to pat the boy’s head, but hesitated, placing it back in his lap. 

“And what of our family?” Fíli asked bitterly. “Are there others who may have sought him and saved him? Where is my mother, my father?”

“Your father was dead before Kíli was born,” Thorin said quietly. “Some things are ever the same. Your mother -” he laughed joylessly. “She was angry with me when I told her you would be sent away to the Academy, but she understood. She never could forgive me for taking you both, though. She has not spoken to me since the day I took Kíli from her.”

“But she is alive?” Fíli pressed. Thorin shrugged.

“She is not answerable to me, and there are none who could find her if she did not wish to be found. She vanished many years ago.” 

“You are no bearer of good tidings,” Dwalin rumbled, patting Thorin’s shoulder in a gesture that looked more punishing than friendly. “You have crippled our Healer and lost this Dwarf’s brother. To what end?” 

There was no escaping that questioning glare, and Bilbo almost thought Thorin shrank back at it. He certainly dropped his gaze, staring blankly at the table before him. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” he said quietly. “None of it. What hope is there, now? Better to let us all grow old and die in peace.”

“Better than what?” Fíli asked, fury in his eyes. “How can this be better than anything? We are lost, and our people are dying!”

“We have been dying for a thousand years!” Thorin roared. He stood up, shaking away Dwalin’s hand as if it were nothing. “A thousand years, we have lived under the curse of Mahal, and a thousand years we have died in vain! I have seen it with my own eyes, again and again!” He put a hand out to Fíli, who did not flinch away, and Thorin rested a hand on his shoulder, thumb rubbing at the dark bruising on the boy’s neck which was half vanished, now. There came a furious tenderness in his eyes, like the love of a father for a son in peril. “For a thousand years, I have tried to lead you, to protect you, and I have failed every time.” The anger seemed to drain from him, and he looked spent. “I am finished. You are my heir; if any are to do what I could not, it must be you.”

“But-” Fíli began, and Thorin shook his head, looking weary beyond measure.

“Leave me,” he said, sinking down in his seat, and reaching for a bottle. “I have failed once more – this one final time.” He looked forward, avoiding all of their eyes, and took a drink, wincing at the contents. “There is no hope left for us now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm, I seemed doomed to write chapters that are each longer than the one before. Sorry about that! I'm not very good at consistency. 
> 
> I am honestly so very excited, and grateful, for the enthusiasm you've shown for this story. I know it's rather severely weird, but knowing people want to read it just makes me unreasonably happy! Thank you so very much!


	7. The Tie that Binds

Bilbo watched the erstwhile King of the Dwarves, their last best hope, drown his sorrows in cheap alcohol, and felt his blood boil quietly. It wasn’t that he was unsympathetic, even to the incredibly muddy picture of events that he was getting from Thorin; he couldn’t imagine a thousand years of frustration and loss, if that number was anything like accurate. But how he could sit there, wrapped in his own misery like a coat of mail, when around him the Dwarves of Erelin were all suffering…

There was no place for him to sit in the squalid little room, but his leg was beginning to throb in time with the beat of his heart, and Bilbo knew he needed to rest it. He let his back hit the wall, and slid down slowly, managing the speed of his descent with his cane, until he could stretch his mangled leg out before him, taking the weight off it entirely. It was such a relief that there was a sudden pressure of tears in his eyes, and Bilbo had to blink quickly to hold them back. 

Dwalin gave a low growl of frustration and snatched the bottle away from Thorin, who didn’t even react. He sat like a statue, slumped over his table, and stared into space with a vacant expression. 

“That’s not good enough,” Fíli said stiffly after a moment, standing to glare down at his uncle with arms crossed. “We need answers, and you are the only one who may be able to provide them! Tell us of this curse! What do you mean, a thousand years? And who has been doing the dying?” He stepped a little closer, anger flaring in his eyes. “And what do you know of those who took my brother?”

Thorin flapped an unsteady hand at him dismissively. “You are no more than a child. How could you understand? Come again in fifty years, and I will tell you what I know, and then you can lead them all to their deaths. I will not do it again.” 

Fíli shook his head, anger and despair and resignation seeming to flow off him in waves, and stalked away toward the door. Thorin gave a low laugh that might almost have been a sob, and Dwalin moved forward to take Fíli’s place. 

“You are drunk,” he said slowly, looking Thorin up and down. “I do not think you speak as yourself now.”

“You don’t even remember me yet!” Thorin spat, glaring up at him with eyes that refused to focus. 

“I remember I once followed you,” Dwalin said quietly. He dropped to one knee before Thorin, staring up at him with a quiet bemusement. “I remember that you were more than you are now. And you are fortunate that I do remember, or out of loyalty to the Halfling, I would already have repaid you for the damage you did him.”

Thorin looked up sharply at that, staring at Bilbo for a moment too long before looking away with what Bilbo was half certain was shame. He didn’t care. He wanted nothing from this Dwarf - not so much as an apology. 

“Forget the vengeance,” Bilbo called to Dwalin, narrowing his eyes coldly at Thorin as he spoke. “It’s not worth it on such as him.” Thorin’s head whipped around at that, fury building in his face, and Bilbo shrugged at him, unmoving. “For nearly a decade, I lived in fear of stepping outside my house because of him - and what do I find? He’s no more a threat than any other wastrel.” It wasn’t quite the truth. There was still fear churning in Bilbo’s stomach, and an anger that ran so deep he wasn’t sure he existed without it any longer. But Thorin was so much less than he had thought, and an almost pathetic figure now.

“You,” Thorin said, gesturing angrily at him. “You!” It was far from incisive commentary, but it seemed to be the best he could do. Bilbo squinted at him a bit, interested in a vaguely clinical fashion, and decided the effects of Dwalin’s ice bath had worn off. Thorin was deep in the grip of the drink, and looked about to lose consciousness where he sat. 

“My brother,” Fíli insisted, turning back to stare at Thorin again. “Do you know anything of him?”

Thorin looked at him, eyes growing pensive and melancholy; Bilbo was not certain he was seeing the boy who stood in front of him at all. “I think,” he said rather dreamily. “That you were hewn from the same stone. You never did like to be parted.” He gave a heavy sigh. “I learned they took him to a foundling home. Far side of the city.” His words slurred together, and his head drooped low. “It was for the children of Men, and they would not speak to me.”

“It’s somewhere to start!” Bofur declared. He lifted his chin, determination in every line of him. “Fíli, we should investigate.”

“We need information!” Fíli protested, gesturing wildly at Thorin. 

“We’ll get nothing useful from him in this state,” Bilbo said evenly. “Even if he felt inclined to help us.”

“Leave him to me,” Dwalin suggested. “I’ll see he drinks no more, and perhaps in the morning he will be more able to speak his mind.”

Bilbo looked at them both intently, then nodded his head slowly. “Bring him round in the morning - but keep him far from me.” He started to try to heave himself upright, but Fíli was at his side in a moment, nearly lifting him up and setting him on his feet with such ease that Bilbo felt wrongfooted. It was easy to forget, sometimes, how very strong the Dwarves really were, when he was usually the one tending to their needs in moments of their greatest weakness. It was frightening, too - because he would never entirely forget how it had felt to be at Thorin’s mercy.

He left without a backward glance, and was glad to put some distance between himself and the bedraggled Dwarf he had just seen. There was a pain building at the back of his head as two images seemed to war with each other - Thorin, hunched over himself, bent with care and grief and the weight of countless years; Thorin, strong and defiant, looking like a warrior of old as he faced something Bilbo could not see. They could not both fit in his head at once, and Bilbo was lost somewhere between the two.

Bilbo had to lean hard on his cane for the first few steps, as his leg was stiff and painful beyond what he could recall experiencing since the first year after the injury, and he peevishly blamed Thorin for that, though it made no sense. The extra exertions of the day were more than enough to explain away the pain.

“I’ll find you a lift,” Fíli promised, and darted off into the light of the setting sun, headed for higher traffic areas. Bofur shook his head at the lad.

“You forget what it’s like, being so young,” he said wryly. “We’ll not see those days again.”

“Or will we?” Bilbo asked, tilting his head to the side. “If we’ve done this all before, doesn’t it make sense we’ll do it again?”

“I don’t know,” Bofur said quietly. There was a stillness to him that was not quite natural, and Bilbo glanced up and to the side, taking in his somber expression. “I don’t know how it all works, or what to expect.” He looked up, past the dark rise of the hillocks that were the homes of the wretched of Erelin, and into the sky, now darkening with deep stormclouds. “The world is growing old, Bilbo, and I do not know how much time is left for us.”

The words sent a cold chill up Bilbo’s spine, and he remembered the desolation in Thorin’s eyes when he talked about the end of hope. He had called it a final time. 

Fíli rattled back into view, clinging to the side of a dark cab that was nearly the twin of the first they had taken, and he helped Bilbo aboard courteously, but his thoughts were clearly elsewhere. “Do you know anything about this foundling home?” he asked them anxiously, and Bofur patted his shoulder comfortingly. 

“We’ll know all we can soon enough, lad.” He looked to Bilbo. “Will you be all right on your own until we’re through?”

“I’ve been on my own for much longer than that,” Bilbo said wryly, though he appreciated the thought. “I’ve got patients to see to this evening. I’ll see you when you’re back.” He closed the door, leaning forward to direct the sullen cabbie back to his house, and was relieved beyond words when the Dwarf nodded acknowledgment, not needing further directions, since Bilbo hardly knew where he was. 

He made it back to the house just in time for the evening rush of patients, and pressed entirely too much money into the cabbie’s hand in a rush to get into his infirmary. The Dwarf didn’t thank him, though, or offer any assistance in getting down - just waited until Bilbo had barely cleared the door before slamming it shut and cracking his whip over his ponies, sending the coach lumbering forward without a farewell. Bilbo shook his head, limping painfully to his door. He had never cared for the ugly words of Men, who claimed that Dwarves loved nothing but money - but there were some who seemed to prove the axiom. 

The evening queue seemed to stretch on forever, and Bilbo moved at a slower pace than usual. His leg ached horribly with every step, and he realised how quickly he had been accustomed to having the occasional hand of help from one Dwarf or another. Everything seemed twice as far away as usual, and the Dwarves at the door eyed him impatiently, though they did not grumble. He patched up wounds and cleaned abrasions, offering what medications he could to the sick, and advising a few to come see him in the morning if their conditions had not improved. There was an old Dwarf in little more than rags who might need a foot amputated, though Bilbo felt the usual sick sensation creeping over him at the idea. A whispered consultation with a Dwarf in the last blush of her fading youth led to a grim diagnosis - her father had poisoned himself, unwilling to carry on with life in Erelin. It was a horrible thing, but Bilbo had seen it before, and he was glumly certain he would see it again. The Dwarves were not made for Erelin, though it had been made for them. 

He was about to close the door after his last patient went hobbling away, but something stayed his hand, and he left it half-open as he set about putting things to right in the little infirmary. His mind had already wandered to the pantry, thinking on a good hot meal to settle his nerves and restore his spirit - but those happy musings were shattered by a ragged cough at the door. 

It was the sailor boy again - but he wasn’t alone. An elderly Dwarf was leaning heavily against him, clearly being half-carried by the boy. She was breathing heavily, eyes half-covered with dark, heavy lids. She scarcely seemed aware of where she was. 

“You again!” Bilbo exclaimed, surprised more by the lad’s company than by his presence. That hand surely needed seeing to again. 

“Not for me,” the lad panted. The old Dwarf didn’t look too heavy, but they both looked utterly exhausted, and Bilbo wondered how far they’d had to come. “She’s very ill. I think it’s the plague.”

Bilbo’s heart dropped, and he hesitated. Should he let these two in, likely carrying infection and danger with them? But how could he turn them away? He made for the door, opening it wide and waving them in. 

“Tell me what you know of the plague,” he instructed, taking her other arm and helping the lad move her to the table, where he quickly tried to make her comfortable. “I haven’t seen a case yet.”

“I know,” the boy said, backing away to the end of the table and then watching Bilbo with big, solemn dark eyes. “They’ve been told not to bring the sick to you. They say there’s nothing to be done for them, and they’re better off dying in their own beds.”

“It is killing patients, then?” Bilbo asked, trying hard to think of a disease that might be striking the Dwarves so heavily. They were an uncommonly resilient folk, and most of the maladies of the world passed them by without a second thought. “I hadn’t heard.”

The boy nodded. “It takes them like this, quickly, and usually in the night. They go so quiet, but for the coughing, and that stops in the end.” He looked at the old Dwarf, fingers reaching out to adjust the hem of her dress a little more neatly around her feet, and Bilbo wondered what she was to him. “It’s peaceful, in the end. Like falling asleep, they say.”

That was almost the worst of it, Bilbo thought, taking her temperature and pulse with practiced hands. Dwarves simply didn’t lie down and die. It was against the natural order of things. 

“Why did you bring her to me?” he asked, turning to his medicine cabinet and rifling through for herbs which might bring down the fever that burned through her body. “Do you know her? I can’t promise you miracles, lad.”

“She was kind to me once,” he said quietly, watching Bilbo without moving. “I just thought you should be able to help her, if you could. Letting them die this way isn’t right.”

It was wrong, Bilbo thought absently as he put water on to boil, throwing the herbs in to steep, that this boy should be so quiet and contained. He was meant to be life and energy personified, never stopping, never quiet by choice. He didn’t know what he meant by it.

“Is it very contagious?”

The boy nodded. “Seems to spread faster every day. No one knows how.”

“At least you’re immune,” Bilbo grumbled, more as something to do than in real irritation. “I suppose I am as well. That’s a blessing.”

“What do you mean?” the lad asked, tipping his head to the side in one of the first displays of curiosity Bilbo had seen from him.

“From what I read, it only seems to affect Dwarves,” Bilbo explained. The lad blinked at him. “So you won’t catch it,” Bilbo tried, looking for a sign of understanding. “Men don’t get this illness, they say - not unless it changes it’s nature.”

“But I’m not a Man,” the boy said, brow wrinkled in confusion. Bilbo stopped dead and looked at him, now taking his own turn to be confused. “At least, not all of one.”

“You can’t be a Dwarf!” Bilbo protested, gesturing vaguely at him. “You don’t look at all like a Dwarf!”

He shrugged, though there was a hurt in his eyes that served to accuse Bilbo of a crime he hadn’t known he was committing. “I’m not a Man. They said I was, but I grew too slowly.”

“But you work on the ships!” Bilbo argued, though he couldn’t say why. Something was very wrong, and he couldn’t quite work out what it was - only that the world was not in the right shape. “Like the other boys.”

“I’ve been working on the ships for more than forty years,” he shot back, a flicker of life in his eyes now. “Look, I don’t know what I am, and I don’t much care. If I’m half a Dwarf, like they say, I might be able to get this illness too, mightn’t I?”

Bilbo backed away to grab the herbal infusion, straining it into a cup as he watched the lad. A heavy certainty was beginning to settle around the back of his neck, and he cursed Thorin’s scraps of information that had sent the others running in the wrong direction. 

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “It’s possible. You need to do everything you can to avoid taking ill. How old are you?”

He shrugged again, watching Bilbo with eyes that suddenly seemed too old; he still looked more like a human boy than a young Dwarfling, even though Bilbo was reasonably certain now. “Sixty, seventy - who knows?” He smiled bitterly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “They’re not much interested in those sorts of things, so long as you can do your work.”

Bilbo set the medicine aside to cool, and took the old Dwarf’s pulse again. It was a little slower now, and he felt a rush of despair. There was nothing he could do to help her, nor any of the others, with the limited supplies he had. He could treat the symptoms, but their bodies hardly seemed to be fighting the disease itself. He took a cautious step forward, putting his hand out toward the boy like he would offer an apple to a skittish pony. 

“Let me see the hand?” 

Dark eyes appraised him for a long moment, then he stepped forward, holding out the bandaged hand. Bilbo unwrapped it slowly, looking him over. Now that he was looking, it wasn’t impossible that this boy was a Dwarf. He certainly didn’t have the height of a Man, and there were features and expressions that made him look startlingly like Fíli, or even Thorin. It was a strange sensation indeed. 

His hand was healthier this time, though still red and inflamed, and Bilbo let go as he limped across the room to the medicine cupboard, turning his head to call casually over his shoulder. 

“Over here, Kíli, I want to see to that.”

The boy started as if he’d been stung, eyes going wide and round as he stared at Bilbo in shock. His mouth fell open a little, and Bilbo wondered whether this was how he’d looked when flashes of memory had forced their way forward in his mind.

“What did you call me?” he whispered.

“Kíli,” Bilbo said, turning to face him. “That’s you, isn’t it?”

“I remember,” Kíli started, blinking slowly. “What do I remember? Was that my name?”

“I think so,” Bilbo said gently, limping forward again, salve in hand. He took Kíli’s hand gently, but the lad didn’t seem to notice. He was buried deep in thought, trying to puzzle through memories that made no sense, and Bilbo was deeply sympathetic. 

“Fíli,” Kíli murmured, looking confused. “Shouldn’t there be a Fíli?”

“There is. He’s off looking for you now, but he’ll be back.”

“I don’t understand?” Kíli said plaintively, and it was a question, not a statement. “There’s never been anyone, but I remember not being alone!” He looked almost ready to panic, and Bilbo kept a grip on his wrist as he tended to the cut, desperate that he should not run off. 

“We’ll explain as best we can,” Bilbo promised soothingly. He smiled as best he could, through the lump that was oddly in his throat all of a sudden. “You’re in for a bit of a rough time, I’m afraid. There’s things to come that will frighten you, and hurt you, but you won’t be alone anymore.”

Kíli blinked at him, eyes unfocused, and something like recognition slid across his face. “I knew you once,” he whispered. “How is that possible?”

Bilbo huffed a little laugh, the sound coming more easily to him these days. “I wish I knew.” He took clean bandages and rewrapped the wound, securing the edge carefully. “Your uncle says it’s a curse, but I’m not sure we can trust a word from him.”

“Uncle,” Kíli muttered thoughtfully. “I don’t recall an uncle.”

“Just you wait, lad,” Bilbo said tiredly, thinking of one more set of memories returning in scars and screams, and heaving a long sigh. “It’ll take a while, but you’ll remember. You’ll remember all of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes, OK, so sorry for the wait! Real life has been a bit mad the past few days, and yesterday I managed to burn my arm quite badly and couldn't bear to write because WOW did it hurt. I almost feel like it's retribution for what I've done to poor Bofur here! ;)
> 
> So this chapter was supposed to cover approximately four times this much material, but a.) it grew in the telling and b.) I didn't want to make you wait another two days to get it all at once, when it would then be a ridiculously long and involved chapter. Think of this as a chapter on it's own, or as part of a larger one, whichever makes you happiest! I'm hoping very much not to leave you waiting so long again. Thank you so much for your patience, loves! <3


	8. From Their Labours Rest

It took a concerted effort to keep Kíli from leaving, then, before the light faded. He drew away from Bilbo as soon as his hand was bandaged, putting himself in a position to break for the door, and looked distractedly back and forth from the window where the last muddy streaks of sunlight could be seen to the old Dwarf, sleeping on Bilbo’s table. 

“I should go,” he muttered, running a hand over his dark hair, which was tied back in a sailor’s messy queue. “We’re meant to sail at dawn.”

“You can’t leave now,” Bilbo insisted, though he knew he could not move fast enough to stop a hasty retreat. “Look, you’re just starting to understand what’s happening. You need to be here with the rest of us.”

“I don’t know any of you!” Kíli said, blinking steadily at him, with an air of unshakable logic. “I came to bring Dria for healing, that’s all. This is the first long-distance voyage I’ve been able to convince to have me!”

“You don’t mean you’re really leaving Erelin?” Bilbo asked, rather stupidly. Dwarves didn’t leave the city. Ships that went out beyond a day’s travel from Erelin did not take Dwarves as passenger or crew, though shorter hauls were happy to make use of their strength for hauling in loads of fish. But if Kíli passed so easily as a Man, there was no reason he couldn’t take a better job.

He nodded, looking appropriately enthusiastic for the first time. “I’m signed on as a hand for a cargo haul down to Pelargi. The pay is twice as good, and I’ve always wanted to see a bit of the world. They say United Gondor has cities that are open to everyone, to come and go as they please!” Kíli’s eyes were wide at this prospect, almost unable to believe it. “Maybe there’s a place there for me.”

“There is a place for you here,” Bilbo insisted, heart hammering a bit. If Kíli ran off now, and left the city, Bilbo was certain they would never find him again. Something deep inside told him that was an unacceptable outcome. He stepped closer, though he was careful not to crowd the lad, or scare him into running. “You said you don’t want to be alone - but what else would you be, surrounded by Men for the rest of your life? Your family is here. Your brother will be back any minute!” He hoped that was true. 

Kíli watched him uncertainly, eyes narrowed in thought, and Bilbo sent up a desperate plea to anyone who might be willing to hear a Hobbit. Behind him, the old Dwarf gave a deep, rattling breath, and both of them turned to look at her, startled by the sudden interruption. 

Kíli’s eyes softened, and he made his way to her side, patting one wrinkled old hand gently. “Are you going to be able to help her?”

“I don’t know,” Bilbo murmured. “I’ve given her what I can to manage the fever, and any pain there might be. Without knowing what’s causing this, or how it’s spread, there’s little more I can do.”

“They say, on the ships, that it’s the hand of God,” Kíli murmured thoughtfully, eyes fixed on the old lady. “That he has tired of the Dwarves, and is making the way for Men to have the world.” He looked up at Bilbo, bitterness and knowledge too old for his years flashing in his eyes. “But don’t they have it already? What do we have, but Erelin?”

Bilbo snorted, shaking his head. “I may not know what’s causing it, but I’ll tell you for certain that this is no act of any god.” He looked skeptically at the lad. “I’m surprised at you. You don’t seem much like a religious sort.”

Kíli shook his head, a spark of mischief suddenly making him look decades younger. “Only when it gets me out of gutting fish. Most of the sailors believe that Ulmo is offended by the death of the creatures of the waters. Play it up, let them think you fear a watery grave, and they’ll usually let you off cleaning the catch.”

“I hadn’t realised anyone still believed in that,” Bilbo mused. The worship of Mahal that he had seen from Bofur and his fellows was different; they were looking for some good thing in the middle of a dark place, and clung to the faith and knowledge of a greener time. But belief in the Valar, more generally, had passed with the legends of Elves and magic that had so offended Bilbo as a young student. 

“Sailors,” Kíli said with a shrug, as though that explained it. “We’re a superstitious lot, mostly. When there’s nothing between you and a watery grave but a few lengths of half-rotting wood, you find what safety you can.” It didn’t escape Bilbo’s notice that although his conversation was light now, Kíli was still at a safe distance, and keeping a clear eye on the fading light. He had to keep him there until Fíli returned. Bilbo gestured to the old Dwarf. 

“It would help me to know a bit more about her. Any idea where she might have contracted the illness? Are her family ill?”

“I don’t know.” The answer was flat, and Bilbo looked up, surprised. “They’re all getting sick on that side of the city. I don’t even know if she has family.”

“I thought you knew her?”

“I know her name is Dria, and she used to be a seamstress near the docks. She sewed things for us cheaper than anyone else would.” Kíli’s fingers fluttered near her sleeve, as though he wanted to put a hand on her arm, but didn’t quite dare. “She was kind to me once, I told you. She let me stay with her for a few days after -” his face shuttered, growing closed and hard. “Well. Not many Dwarves would take in someone like me. I wanted to return the favour, but I expect I’m too late.”

It was too late for a lot of things, Bilbo thought sadly. They were all too late. 

“If she doesn’t take a turn for the better, I don’t expect she’ll live through the night,” Bilbo told Kíli regretfully. “But if you stay, she won’t be alone - and it seems to me that that is quite a lot of thanks to offer.”

Kíli looked torn, but finally nodded. “I suppose I can always leave early enough to make it to the dock by sunset.” He gestured absently towards his own face. “They don’t stop me for curfews. I reckon there must be some benefits to not looking like a proper Dwarf!” His tone was artificially bright, but Bilbo just nodded, relieved. There would be time for Fíli to explain what he could, and he would leave it up to the brothers to work out the best course to take. In the meantime, he had a patient to see to. 

It was nearly full dark before Fíli returned, stumbling in without bothering to knock. “Nothing,” he called gloomily, over the sounds of his coat hitting the ground with a dull thud. “They wouldn’t even talk to us for hours, and then claimed they don’t keep records on nameless foundlings.”

“In here!” Bilbo called, turning up the light on a flickering gas lamp, and watching Kíli intently. He had gone stiff the moment the door had opened, stepping back from Dria’s side to put his back carefully against a wall, watching the hallway with a dark, unblinking stare. Fíli’s footsteps were heavy on the wooden floor, as though he was literally made heavier by his disappointment, and Bilbo slid around to block the now-closed door out of the house, just in case Kíli should spook and run. 

Fíli came in slowly, taking in the unusual scene with a tired glance, and frowned at Bilbo. “I didn’t know you held with overnight visitors.”

“And what have you been, I’d like to know?” Bilbo shot back. He nodded at Dria. “Keep your distance. I’m afraid she’s suffering from the plague, and I don’t know how it’s spread.” Fíli nodded, looking a bit frightened, and glanced around again, his eyes stopping on Kíli. He froze, tilting his head to one side and staring at Kíli intently. Bilbo kept his silence. 

“Who are you?” Fíli asked after a moment, voice strangled in his throat. His eyes were narrowed into slits, watching Kíli like a cat would stare at a mouse. 

Kíli blinked at him, unmoving. “You look like you want to tell me.”

Fíli shook his head, as though trying to shake water out of his ears. “You’re him, aren’t you? You’re Kíli?”

“Apparently,” Kíli said flatly. His arms were pressed tightly around his chest, and he made no move toward Fíli. “That’s what I almost remember. Are you Fíli?”

“You don’t remember me?” Fíli asked, sounding half relieved and half disappointed. 

“Just a name,” Kíli muttered. He looked longingly at the door, clearly wanting to be gone. 

Fíli moved forward, a grin spreading across his face. “This is incredible! I went looking for you, and here you are! Where have you been?” 

“Around.” Kíli glanced at Bilbo, a plea written clearly across his face. “I didn’t know anyone was looking.” 

“I don’t remember everything yet,” Fíli said quickly, eyes bright. “I didn’t even remember what you looked like, or if this is even what we did look like, before. I suppose we’ll get to remember together!” He came forward more, putting his hands out to grab Kíli’s shoulders in the Dwarvish manner that Bilbo had seen before, and Kíli stepped aside quickly, shaking his head.

“I’m going to Gondor,” he protested, breathing a little too rapidly. “I have a ship, and a chance to get out of here. I don’t know you!”

Fíli’s face fell in sudden sharp disappointment, and Bilbo winced for him. “But we’re family!” Fíli protested, stretching one hand out toward Kíli. 

“I don’t have a family,” Kíli said coolly, watching him with detachment. “I don’t know what’s happening to me, or to you, and I’m not interested in knowing. I’m happier on my own, thank you.” 

But Bilbo remembered the way he had looked toward the light and laughter when he had visited before, and knew that was a lie. 

“You can’t just leave!” Fíli protested. “I’ve been looking for you as long as I can remember, even when I didn’t know what it was I was looking for! You can’t just turn up and then go away again!” He shook his head, eyes bright and desperate in the low light. “Please. Haven’t you ever thought there was something wrong - something missing? I can’t be the only one!”

“I expect it’s a bit easier to notice one thing missing when you’ve got everything else,” Kíli said quietly, eying Fíli’s fine clothing and neatly braided hair meaningfully. 

They made for a sharp contrast, the pair of them, in more than just their colouring. Where Kíli’s clothes were little more than neatly-kept rags, Fíli’s almost looked like the things worn by the officials who ran Erelin in company with Men. Fíli stood tall and confident, shoulders broad and straight, but Kíli was curled into himself, light on his feet and ready to dash away at any moment. Even their hands showed the differences their lives had offered - Kíli’s wounded and calloused, where Fíli’s were ink-stained and more used to the work of turning pages than hauling ropes. 

“Please,” Fíli repeated. He put his hands down, not demanding anything any longer, but the sadness in his eyes pierced Bilbo to the heart. “Don’t make me lose you again so soon.”

Kíli nodded tightly at Dria, whose breathing had grown a bit slower and shallower. “I’m here to stay with her until she passes.” But he hesitated, and a bit of the longing that Bilbo had seen so keenly before crept back into his eyes. He didn’t want to be alone, Bilbo knew. “I suppose we could talk for a while, though,” he offered, and a tiny smile tugged at one side of his face as Fíli let out a roar of delight.

Bilbo left them to it, mostly. He went back to his books and texts, searching furiously for any hint of a disease like the plague they were seeing, but at every turn, his search was fruitless. Dwarves simply did not die of such things. He spent a few hours alternating studying with trudging into the infirmary to check Dria’s temperature and breathing, occasionally brewing more herbal remedies and doing his best to get her to swallow them. He watched the brothers with a curious eye as he passed back and forth, doing his best to appear uninterested. 

It was not the miraculous reunion of lost souls that he suspected Fíli had expected. At first, Kíli kept his distance, arms tucked close about him and eyes wary, answering Fíli’s questions in brief, careful sentences that gave away nothing personal. Fíli was too exuberant, too invested in convincing Kíli that they were truly brothers, and too desperate to truly seem as cheerful as he was acting. But as the hours passed, Bilbo watched quietly as they drew together, eventually taking seats side by side next to Dria’s bed and settling into a quiet rhythm. Kíli relaxed, letting his guard down enough to occasionally smile or laugh, and Fíli tamped down the jagged edges of neediness and just talked. By the time that Bilbo came around, just before getting ready for bed, he was not quite surprised to find that Kíli was curled up on the floor in front of the warm pipes, snoring quietly, while Fíli watched him pensively. 

“He’ll dream tonight, won’t he?” Fíli asked Bilbo in a whisper, and Bilbo shrugged.

“You’re the one having these dreams, not I. It seems likely, though.” 

“I don’t dream of dying anymore,” Fíli confided. “Five times, I did, with five different deaths. Now-” he nodded vaguely towards Kíli. “I think I’m dreaming of lives.”

“That’s an improvement,” Bilbo said approvingly - but Fíli just shook his head, and his eyes were haunted.

Bilbo did not know how to answer that, so he checked on Dria one last time, shaking his head as he took her pulse. She would pass in her sleep, undisturbed by the fears and worries of those around her. There was nothing he could do.

He stumbled to bed, eyes bleary, and collapsed onto it with little care for the pain in his leg. He had half forgotten it in the excitement of finding Kíli, but the injury was clearly not so forgiving. It was more than an hour before dawn when he woke to such severe, stabbing pains in the old wound that he could barely limp back to the infirmary, leaning heavily on the cane as he went. He swallowed all of the remedies he had ever found effective, collapsing in the now-vacant chair by Dria’s head with a shuddering exhale of pain, and tried to breathe through it. 

The two young Dwarves were both asleep now, and Bilbo looked at them with an unfamiliar fondness. They were curled up on the ground, a few feet separating them from one another, but they had gravitated toward each other in sleep. Fíli had flung an arm out toward Kíli, palm up and hand open, and Kíli had moved from his previous position, coming a great deal closer. They breathed in unison, two gentle snores mingling in the quiet of the room, and Bilbo could not distinguish them.

But there was a third, rasping breath as well, and that was his lookout. He leaned forward to check on the old Dwarf, who was struggling for each breath now, though she slept on, and her face looked peaceful. With no way to help her, Bilbo shook his head, and took her hand. It was cold. 

He did not know how the Dwarves faced death when they knew it was coming. Dwarves had died in his home several times before, but it had always been a sudden, terrifying thing - not this peaceful descent. Bilbo did not know if they prayed, or wept, or left the dying alone in peace. He held her hand and waited with her, and bowed his head when the last breath came. Bofur would probably say that she had gone to rest with her ancestors, he knew, though it was a matter of some confusion to him as to how that was meant to work. Dwarves did not lightly share their secrets, and Bilbo didn’t hold with mysticism - but he hoped, in whatever form it might be found, that this one old Dwarf had found a measure of peace in the end. 

Across the room, Kíli drew in a quick, sharp breath, and his arms flew up to cover his head as his body suddenly shook. Bilbo closed his eyes in resignation, knowing what was coming. It was only a moment before Kíli started shaking, giving a low, horrible cry of pain and loss that might have been dragged from the depths of his being, and it built into a scream. Fíli was awake in a moment, shaking off sleep as he scrambled across the floor to his brother. He grabbed Kíli’s shoulders and shook him roughly.

“Hey! Wake up! It’ll get better, I swear to you it will, but you’ve got to shake it off. Come on!” 

Kíli came awake with a gasp, swallowing the end of the scream as his eyes snapped open, and he stared, wild-eyed, at Fíli. 

“That’s it,” Fíli said soothingly, patting his shoulder. “It’s horrible, I know - but it’s over now! Put it out of your mind.”

Kíli lifted his hands to his face, using his arms to push Fíli’s hands off his shoulders, and Bilbo could see the shivers that ran through him. He took a few deep breaths, putting himself together, and then dropped his hands to his lap, looking intently at Fíli.

“You died,” he said, sounding mildly quizzical. “And so did I. I remember it.”

“I know,” Fíli whispered, looking ill. “I’m sorry. Forget it as fast as you can. It’s the only way.”

“No!” Kíli looked startled. “There was a sword in your heart. I remember it! And you looked at me when you died, and you closed your eyes - just like we were going to sleep, just like always.” He breathed deeply and winced, and put a hand to his ribs. “And then they shot me. Arrows in my back, in my side, but it didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would.”

Fíli shook his head, eyes too bright. “I don’t want to hear it,” he insisted. “I want to remember who we were, not how we were killed.”

“It’s all one,” Kíli told him gently. There was a clear-eyed maturity to him that Bilbo would not have expected, and for a moment, it almost seemed like he was the older brother, looking after the younger. Bilbo thought, quietly, that he had not always been so wise. “We died because of who we were, and it is part of us.” He put a hand out carefully, fingertips brushing against a golden braid, then took his hand back thoughtfully. 

“You believe me now?” Fíli asked, voice hushed and hopeful, and Kíli smiled sadly at him. It was answer enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope it's not a disappointment that the lads are not immediately the people we once knew them to be. A lot of water has passed under the bridge, and they have suffered a great deal more than the very young Dwarves who once accompanied Bilbo on a reckless journey could ever have imagined. It changes a person.
> 
> That said (and I'm sure this speaks more to my lack of understanding of a proper chapter structure), we're still only about halfway through the material I thought the LAST chapter would cover! I don't want to rush this, though, and I'm so grateful to you all for letting me take the time to tell the story properly. <3


	9. No Other Sunshine

When the sun rose on Erelin, it had to fight its way through the constant haze of smoke to reach weak tendrils of light down to the houses below. Bilbo was upstairs, smoking, and thinking. 

It had been worth the effort to haul his crippled leg up the several flights of stairs, even knowing that he would have to climb back down again. He could see more from there, and the air was a trifle fresher - but the main draw was the solitude. There was a tension in the air downstairs, as Fíli and Kíli moved cautiously around one another, eyes always fixed on the brother they did not know. Kíli had given up talking about leaving, but he was tense and quietly distant, keeping Fíli’s friendly overtures at arm’s length. Fíli was boiling over with enthusiasm and undirected energy, with nowhere to spend it. It was, frankly, rather exhausting to watch them both, and he had retreated for a few moments of quiet contemplation before his visitors arrived for the morning.

The sun shone dimly down on the city, doing little to rid the close streets of the damp muskiness that pervaded every corner. Bilbo blew out a neat ring of smoke, looking down at the city with unfocused eyes. He would have to send round for the Delvers, who would see to the burial of the old Dwarf’s body now that she had passed away. He had no idea what constituted Dwarvish burial practices; he had no need to know. They looked after their own, in the end, and it was not his place to pry.

A grim, horrible part of Bilbo started to wonder what would be done as the numbers of the dead and dying rose. Would there be enough Delvers left to manage the dead? He had read of plagues before, in the cities of Men - of bodies stacked like cordwood, or burned, or thrown into mass graves to be forgotten. He thought uneasily of the stacks of masks and vials of medicine in his cupboards, and wondered what the Governance knew of the plague that he did not. Bilbo bit down on the stem of his pipe, trying to decide. He could go in search of answers, venturing out into the city again, or he could remain where he knew the Dwarves would be able to find him in their suffering. Neither option seemed entirely attractive. 

The Governance had sent him supplies and medication, worse than useless though it might have been, and yet Kíli said the Dwarves were directed not to bring the sick to him for help. It made no sense. Bilbo puffed on the pipe a few times, absentmindedly savouring the quality of the leaf, and tried to work it out. What reason stood behind it? The most cynical part of him suggested, though very quietly, that it was nothing more than a show of caring, with an eye to Bilbo’s letters home to the Shire. Should he accuse them of undermining the health of the Dwarves, the Took might very well reduce the numbers of Healers sent to the cities of Men. Then again, perhaps it was just rumours among the lower levels of Dwarvish society that had them convinced the authorities of the city wished them kept away from the Healer. 

He blew out a long, slow breath, watching the smoke drift away and mingle with the dull haze of the air outside. A plague, and the superstitions of Dwarves, would have been enough to keep him busy. Now, he also had his hands full of troubled Dwarves who seemed to be rediscovering past lives they had lived, and whose hopes were somehow dependent on Bilbo, strange as it seemed. And to top it off, his own mind was troubled by vague recollections he could not quite catch hold of, and which he had no reasons to believe were anything but the troubled musings of an over-tired mind - and yet, he did believe them. He was not dreaming in the way of the Dwarves, but there was no doubt in his mind that he knew them. Whatever had brought them to their deaths, and then to his home, he had been a part of it, once, and was intimately tied to their work and worries, though he could not remember why. 

Irritated, he hauled himself to his feet and banged the window shut, stomping down the stairs with more force than was necessary. Once, he had wanted nothing more from life than a quiet pipe and some solitude. Once, he had thought that possible. 

Fíli was pacing downstairs, marking a path back and forth from kitchen to infirmary, and looked up gratefully when Bilbo appeared. “I was beginning to think you had snuck away over the roofs!”

Bilbo rolled his eyes expressively, gesturing to his leg, and pushed Fíli aside gently so he could go through to the kitchen and pour a mug of tea. “That’s not likely. Where’s your brother?”

Fíli almost glowed at that, grinning happily and darting ahead to pull a chair out for Bilbo. “Still here. He’s sitting with the old lady.”

“Right,” Bilbo said. He limped over to his writing desk and took up pen and paper, dashing off a quick note and sealing it with the seldom-used official stamp of the Healer. “I’ll need you to take this along to the Delvers. We must see her body taken care of.” 

Fíli nodded solemn agreement and took the envelope from Bilbo, but hesitated on the brink of the door, and spoke in a hushed tone. “I don’t think it will be a problem, but please don’t let Kíli leave? I don’t want to lose him again.” His shoulders were tense at the thought, and Bilbo waved him off impatiently, but couldn’t suppress a wave of sympathy. 

“Yes, yes - now be off with you, before we find ourselves the centre of a murder investigation,” Bilbo said briskly, and Fíli darted away with the bewildering energy of the young. Bilbo leaned into the passage to check on Kíli, who was sitting pensively by Dria’s side, arms wrapped around his knees as he considered the body of the old Dwarf. Bilbo withdrew, not wanting to intrude, and fixed himself a quiet little breakfast, trying to steel himself for the day ahead. It was likely to be the wildest day yet. 

The Delvers could not be faulted for their promptness. They returned straightaway with Fíli, and covered Dria’s face respectfully with a carefully embroidered cloth, bearing her away in a silence so deep that Bilbo would not use words to threaten it. Kíli didn’t move as they worked, keeping his self-contained silence, but watching every movement with dark eyes. 

There were sounds outside the door, and Bilbo sighed, shaking off the melancholy that had fallen over him at the ceremonial removal of his latest patient. “Looks like I’m in demand again,” he said dryly. “Help if you like, or clear out, please. There’s more than enough Dwarves outside the door to suit me.” Kíli nodded silently and left, and Fíli followed after him anxiously, as if afraid that his brother would vanish again if he let him out of sight. 

Bilbo looked carefully at each of his patients as he worked, studying them for any signs of the plague, but it was hard to distinguish. The Dwarves were all tired, worn down by years of hard labour and unkind treatment, and most were not as well fed or clothed as they ought to be. Fevers were not uncommon, particularly in those who had suffered injuries they hadn’t bothered to bring to him for treatments. Coughing, sadly, was nearly epidemic, from the filth in the air. With no other symptoms to look for, Bilbo was at a loss to identify those who were potentially becoming ill. 

He talked to them all, though, looking for information - and it was a strange departure for Bilbo, who usually did his best for the Dwarves without engaging in idle chatter. Those who revealed they lived or worked near the docs were given the masks the Governance had sent Bilbo, and he warned them to keep their distance from the sick wherever possible. It felt like putting a plaster on a mortal wound, but there was nothing else he could do without more information. He sighed to himself, realising it meant he would likely have to go to the Governance for more information, much as he hated the thought. 

He sent the last of his patients away with a stack of masks and let the door swing closed, though it cut off a little bit of natural light from outside. He took his cane in one hand, moving slowly along the passageway as he stretched muscles made tight by the rush of concentrated activity. The smell of eggs and bacon greeted him, and he sniffed appreciatively, moving a bit faster.

“Come on, then!” Fíli said with a laugh, sweeping a ridiculous bow and gesturing Bilbo toward the table. “My dear brother has consented to make us all a bite to eat!” 

Bilbo chuckled dryly and sat, letting the cane drop to rest against his chair. “And why are we not blessed with your own culinary endeavours?”

Kíli snorted quietly. “Him? Look how posh he is! I don’t reckon he’s ever cooked a day in his life!” 

Fíli shrugged good-naturedly, but there was a hint of hurt in his eyes. Kíli’s jibe had sounded good-natured, if somewhat guarded, to Bilbo, but it was clear that Fíli took it personally. Bilbo wondered oddly whether Fíli had ever been teased before, growing up in such a constrained, formal environment with so few other children. Kíli, on the other hand, was clearly used to the sharp, often cruel banter of the ships and docks - had more than likely been a target of it many times, in fact. It was one more thing they would have to learn and unlearn together. He put a hand to his head as a sudden image sprang to mind of two heads, one bright and one dark, bent together in shared laughter.

Fíli dropped a plate of hot food in front of him, and Bilbo shook away the strange thought. It probably was a memory of some sort, he thought dully, but he had no context for it. He got ideas and hints of memories, but he had no way to stitch them together into something meaningful. At least if he was dreaming the terrible dreams the Dwarves seemed to share, he might have some chance of making sense of what he was trying to remember. 

The food was hot and plentiful, and Bilbo ate in a pleasant enough silence. Fíli was overly appreciative in his eating, and Kíli watched him with a wary sort of amusement, putting his food away quickly and quietly, as though not sure when he would see more. They had just got to the point of pushing back their plates and sighing in contentment when a pounding came at the door, and Bilbo started violently. 

“I’ll get it!” Fíli declared, shooting up and dashing to the door before Bilbo could object. Kíli got up too, but crept around the table to stand near Bilbo, effectively putting the whole solid bulk of the table between them and the unexpected visitors. Fíli flung the door open, and Bilbo saw his shoulders slump for a second before he straightened mechanically and stepped back. “Look who’s walking on his own now,” he said, with a light, flippant attitude that earned him a growl from someone on the other side.

Bilbo stood up and grabbed his cane, moving around until he could see that it was Dwalin and Thorin on the doorstep, the latter looking decidedly ill, but no longer inebriated. His eyes were red and bloodshot, and his face had the pallor of a Dwarf who had not often seen the sun, but Dwalin had clearly made him change his clothing and remove the worst knots from his hair. He still looked very far from a king, but at least now he did not look so much like a beggar. Bilbo’s hand tightened angrily on the handle of his cane, and he nodded sharply. “Good to see you, Dwalin. Please, come in.” He carefully omitted any word to Thorin, but of course Dwalin pushed the ragged Dwarf ahead of him, until the group of them seemed to quite fill Bilbo’s kitchen. 

“Are you going to be bruising or maiming anyone today?” Fíli asked with bitter politeness, the words so cold they stung. Thorin glanced up at him sharply, anger flaring in his red-rimmed eyes, and then dying just as quickly as he took in the still livid colours of the black eye he had given his nephew. 

“No,” he said quietly, looking away. “I was not myself. I will lay no hand on you, or any other.” Dwalin gave a grunt of approval, and flung himself down at the table, helping himself to Fíli’s unattended mug of tea.

“Who’s this, then?” he muttered, nodding his great bald head sharply toward Kíli.

“He’s-” Fíli began, glancing at Kíli, and then hesitated. Kíli did nothing so obvious as shake his head, but there was a wideness to his eyes, and a twitch of his lips, and Fíli gave a tiny nod. “He’s a friend of one of Bilbo’s patients.” 

Of course, Bilbo thought with a tired shake of his head. Of course the lad would be hesitant to give away his new-found identity, when he was not yet sure of it, and when faced with two rather threatening looking Dwarves. The truth would out, in due time. He sat down again, and Fíli dragged over another chair, placing himself between Bilbo’s side of the table and Thorin’s - who Bilbo had yet to so much as glance at openly. He would not give Thorin the satisfaction of seeing him quiver, nor of seeing his anger. After a hesitant moment, Kíli came over to join them, and they all waited expectantly. 

“Well?” Fíli said after a minute. “What can you tell us, now that you are sober? Explain this, please, before we all run mad!”

Thorin glanced at Kíli, frowning in concentrated disapproval. “Our business is not for the ears of Men.”

“Your business,” Bilbo said sharply, “while it is being conducted in my home, is for the ears of whomever I choose to allow to listen. The lad is far more welcome here than yourself, Thorin Oakenshield.” He fixed Thorin with a cold stare, pleased with himself for not saying more. Thorin looked deeply displeased, but wilted after a moment, seemingly having no strength to fight. 

“What would you have me say? You’ve clearly worked it out for yourself.” He shrugged, even that simple movement seemingly exhausting. “We died, and then we came back - and we did it again and again.”

“Five times?” Fíli pressed, leaning forward eagerly. “I’ve remembered five different - well, deaths, I suppose.” He frowned at the thought, and Bilbo saw Kíli give a little shiver at the idea. Thorin nodded slowly. 

“Five times, Mahal be damned.”

“I recall only three,” Dwalin rumbled. 

“They’ll come back to you,” Thorin said despondently. “One by one, and then the memories to follow. They come faster as you begin to remember, and as more of the company are brought together.”

“So why do you remember, and we do not?” Fíli asked, looking puzzled. “I thought maybe we were meant to remember with age, but you’re not that much younger than Uncle Thorin.” He nodded to Dwalin as he spoke. 

“I always remember,” Thorin rasped, rubbing at his eyes with one hand. “All of it, for a thousand years. I have known from the earliest times of my life, every time, and I have spent my lives finding you all. Five times, I brought us together to do the impossible, and five times I have failed.” His voice cracked under the weight of that desolation, and Bilbo struggled not to let himself feel sorry. He cleared his throat meaningfully.

“And what of me?” he asked, but then felt it wasn’t a very clearly worded question. “We met nine years ago, and you cursed me, and flung me from a window. Why?”

Thorin looked up at him, and there was a sudden flicker of regret in his eyes that Bilbo did not want to see. He did not want Thorin’s apologies. “Because it was wrong,” he said in a choked whisper. “You were never meant to be here, trapped, with us.”

“So I haven’t been with you all this thousand years?” Bilbo asked, trying to piece together the bits of information. “Where have I been?”

“We never knew,” Thorin said quietly. “You were with us the first time - and ask me no more of it. I will not speak of that time to anyone; you must remember alone.” He fixed Bilbo with a clear, unblinking gaze. “We looked for you again and again, and you were not to be found. We thought you were the blessed one, the one who had found peace.”

“So it was jealousy?” Bilbo demanded, feeling heat rush into the tips of his ears. Thorin shook his head.

“No. When you saw me, I was not in my own mind. To see you in this forsaken place, when we thought you safe-” he shook his head. “And it sometimes becomes muddled in my head, after all this time. I saw you, and I thought you had betrayed me. You were not to blame.”

“No, I never thought I was,” Bilbo snapped. He took a deep breath, then another, trying to calm himself. “So why am I here now? Why is it different this time?”

Thorin shook his head wearily. “I cannot say. Perhaps to see an end to it with us.”

“That’s not a particularly hopeful sentiment,” a new voice said, and Bilbo turned quickly to see Bofur standing behind him, arms folded casually as he leaned against the doorframe. “Sorry, let myself in,” he said offhandedly. “Hope you don’t mind if I join the conversation.” Bilbo obligingly shuffled his chair, moving much closer to Kíli, who had also shifted around closer to Fíli. 

“Hope is worse than useless to us,” Thorin spat, glowering darkly at Bofur. “What hope has there ever been? Every hope has led us to disaster!”

“Doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist,” Bofur said easily. “Look around. A fortnight ago, we were alone. Now we are drawing together, and that is hope itself!”

“No.” Thorin’s voice was flat and dull. “That is our doom, and has ever been. I swore it would be different this time. I let you all go.” He stared out the window with its wavery glass, looking out at the street. “We are better to live and die alone here than to take up arms again.”

“Is that why you sent me away?” Fíli sounded incredibly young, and Bilbo saw the mask of cool indifference the lad usually wore slip a bit, as Kíli glanced sharply at him. “Why you took me from my mother?”

“You were better off there,” Thorin protested, looking rather trapped. “I provided you with the best education any Dwarf could have! Of course you would be better off there than with us!” It sounded like a well-rehearsed defense. 

Fíli laughed sharply and shook his head, moving a fraction further away from Thorin, closer to Kíli. “I won’t thank you for it.”

Thorin slammed a hand down on the table, and Bilbo and Kíli jumped sharply. “I have never asked for thanks!” he roared. “I have tried to keep us together, and it has failed! I have tried to lead us home, and it has failed! We are at the end of all things, and I can do no more!”

“Why is it the end?” Kíli asked quietly, not looking up from the surface of the table. 

“There are no more Dwarves,” Thorin said wearily. “We have been reborn again and again, but always in the same manner, to Dwarves and of Dwarves. When we die this time, there will be no more chances.”

“For what?” Dwalin asked, voice a low rumble. “What is the purpose of all of this, Thorin?”

“I don’t know,” Thorin said tightly. He looked away. “When I died, I thought it was over. I had lived my time, and I knew I would go to rest with my fathers and my kin, until the remaking of the world. It was not such a bad thing, in the end, to die with such a certainty.” He frowned, eyes lost in a distant past. “But then I woke again, and I remembered everything, though a hundred years of the world had passed. I was no more than a child. I sought you all as soon as I grew old enough, and the company was put together and remembered.” He shook his head, fingers wandering absently through the long, ragged strands of his dark beard. “But we were too young and foolish, and unprepared. I led us all to our deaths.”

“Where?” Dwalin wondered, rubbing absently at a shoulder, and Bilbo noticed they were all seemingly fingering their scars, wondering which one had been earned in such a time. “Where would you lead us?”

“To the same place we were always meant to go,” Thorin murmured sadly. “To Erebor.”

“Erebor? As in the mysterious legendary mountain where Dwarves live free?” Bofur asked skeptically. 

“It was our home!” Thorin growled, angry lines carved into his tired face. “I thought that must be our doom - to return there and set things right.” He glanced at Fíli, looking shamefaced. “You and your brother were little more than infants, that time. We were too hasty, but it was a time of great peace after great evil, and we thought it would be simple. It seemed a blessing - a second chance to make things right.”

“They did not want us,” Fíli said slowly, eyes nearly shut in concentration. “They said we were mad?”

“Yes,” Thorin growled. His hands formed into huge fists on the table. “I went to the representative of the King - the descendant of the man who took my throne - and told him our story. They laughed at us for madmen, and when we would not leave, they cursed us as enemies and drove us away. It was winter, then.” He shivered, and around the table, four other Dwarves shook in unison, as though memory had a physical affect. “We were driven away in the cold, to the very shores of the lake - but it was not the shore, after all.”

“We fell into icy water,” Bofur said suddenly, eyes wide in horrified remembrance. “They pushed us to the ice, and it broke, and we were drowned.” He looked up at Thorin, disbelieving. “Even the children?”

“Yes,” Fíli murmured, arms coming up to wrap around his chest for warmth. Kíli eyed him, then scooted a bit closer, until their shoulders touched. 

“Your own people?” Bilbo asked, horrified. 

“It’s not a particularly convincing story,” Thorin said bitterly. “We learned from that, though, and never went again until we were ready.” He narrowed his eyes in age-old fury. “And we never looked for help from outsiders again.”

“So we’ve been trying to go back to this same place, then - this Erebor?” Dwalin asked, shaking his head. “It makes no sense, Thorin! Why have we returned? If we were given a second chance, then clearly we wasted it.”

“Erebor is our home,” Thorin hissed, anger and hatred bubbling up through his words. “For a thousand years it has sat in the hands of thieves and murderers, and of their descendants. I would have taken it back and given us a home, and then perhaps we would have found peace!”

“Not from war,” Bofur said gently, shaking his head. “Never from war. We find our peace in one another, and in what we have been given.”

Thorin glared at him, eyes threatening. “You’re a man of faith now, Bofur? That’s something new. Tell me of your god, old friend. Tell me why he has cursed us so.” The words were vicious, spat from his mouth with malice and rage. 

“Why must it be a curse?” Bofur asked reasonably. “We are told that Durin returned to his people time and again, and it was grace to them. Mahal may have given us a gift.”

Fíli gave a groan and buried his head in his hands. “Please, no more! Mahal is a tale for children!”

Kíli looked at him curiously. “What is Mahal?”

Bofur peered around Bilbo to glance at Kíli, who had escaped his notice before. “You’ll not have heard much of Mahal, lad,” he said dismissively. “He is for the Dwarves, and nothing to do with Men.”

“It’s a legend!” Fíli said angrily, sitting up. “They say Mahal created the Fathers of the Dwarves from stone, and gave them life, because he wanted children of his own to teach! It’s no more real than all the stories that go with it - of Elves and magic and the rest.”

Bofur nodded, but didn’t look bothered by Fíli’s outrage. “Aye, it’s a story - but it’s a good one!” He smiled winningly at them. “And it’s as likely a story as any other. Those of us who hold to the old ways find it a comfort.”

“Like Ulmo, on the seas,” Kíli murmured, nodding understanding. 

Bofur looked at Thorin. “How many of us are there in this Company?”

“Thirteen,” Thorin said glumly. “Myself and my nephews, Dwalin and his brother, you with your own brother and cousin, and then five more who were my kin, if distantly.”

Dwalin gave a low whistle, and the others shook their heads despairingly. Bilbo glanced around at them in confusion.

“What am I missing?” he asked, annoyed. 

“Thirteen,” Bofur said sadly. “It’s an unlucky number indeed! To take thirteen on a venture is said to guarantee it’s failure.”

Bilbo blinked, counting quickly in his head, and then looked directly at Thorin. “Fourteen,” he said. “I’m fourteen, aren’t I?”

“It was one of the reasons you came along,” he admitted grudgingly, then blinked a few times, clearly processing the information. “Fourteen again,” he mused quietly. “Now that you are here, we might be fourteen.”

“Are we seriously thinking of judging all of this on the merits of lucky numbers?” Fíli asked incredulously, glancing around the table.

“Not luck, lad,” Bofur told him slowly, a smile spreading over his face that seemed to light the room. “We’re talking about a gift. If this is our last chance, then it seems Mahal has seen fit to give us our best chance.” He clapped a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder, shaking it encouragingly. “It’s a sign. Hope is not lost!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, wow, I'm getting rather dreadful about updating in a timely fashion. Sorry, guys, really and truly! It's been a bad few days on the personal side of things, but I feel like things are on the upswing now, and hopefully I'll be able to get back to a much more regular posting schedule. Thank you for your patience!


	10. The Story So Far

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, after a brief, umm, seventh month hiatus, we're back! I would wallow in apologies, but I'd rather use that time to write. I'll probably remove this interlude once I've got a proper chapter up, but I thought I'd summarise the story so far. Please expect the next proper chapter up within the next day or two - and I mean that. 
> 
> Sorry for the delay, loves, and if you choose to carry on with me I will be forever grateful. My goal is to have this story properly finished by the end of October (to make way for NaNoWriMo), so unless things go desperately wrong I shan't be vanishing on you again.

In the Fourth Age, the time of magic is fading. Elves are long gone from Middle Earth, and from living memories; Hobbits have withdrawn inside the Shire, their life-spans shrunken along with their public presence in the world. The Dwarves have lost their vitality, and the few that remain are confined in the walled city of Erelin, where Men use their labour and keep them from practicing their old customs. The last children were born more than sixty years earlier, and the Dwarves are a dying race. 

Bilbo Baggins is a healer living in Erelin, sent to care for the Dwarves - but ever since a brutal attack nine years earlier that left him crippled, he has confined himself to his huge, cold house, haunting it in solitude. He has given up caring for the world beyond his doorstep - until a young, callow Dwarf by the name of Fili barges in, makes himself at home, and immediately begins having nightmares about his own death. Nightmares that leave scars on his flesh, and that seem to be genuine memories. 

As Bilbo finds his own memory sparking more often, with images and sounds he cannot place, more and more Dwarves join their odd little band. Bofur, adherent of the secret-but-forbidden cult of Mahal, tells the story of the last of the Dwarves - the younger brother Fili has misplaced, and whom he has spent his whole life looking for. Bofur lost the child to authorities of Men many years before, and lost track of him when he was taken into care as a human foundling. 

Bofur begins to have the same dreams of dying that torment Fili, and soon his compatriot Oin, the young textile worker Ori, and Balin, the old watchmaker, join their numbers. Fili dreams five different deaths, all horrible and traumatic, though his memories fade on waking. They research old texts that have been hidden away from destruction by Bofur’s group, the Children of the Maker - and find references to an ancient king who is prophesied to lead the Dwarves out of their darkness. Spurred by memories he cannot place, Bilbo urges the Dwarves to seek Fili’s uncle Thorin, who he suspects to be that king. 

But they find Thorin is a drunken lout - the same angry Dwarf who attacked Bilbo and ruined his leg years ago, and he’s not interested in helping. He curses Mahal, telling them they have been dying and returning for the past thousand years, and that there is no help for them. This will be the last time they live, and Thorin has given up all hope. Dwalin, also beginning to remember life in a greener time, swears to protect Bilbo and to get Thorin sobered up. By whatever means necessary. 

Meanwhile, Bilbo has been dealing with an oncoming plague that only affects Dwarves - and with suspicions that the human Governance may have intended the plague to destroy the Dwarf population. With no idea what’s causing the disease or how it may be spread, Bilbo is helpless to prevent the disease running it’s course. His first plague victim is brought in by a seemingly-human foundling lad who works on the ships - and who Bilbo is startled to find is the missing Dwarf brother that Fili has spent his life looking for. 

So now Bilbo has eight confused and traumatised Dwarves invading his home, digging into the secrets of the past that Men have tried to keep from them, and a prophecy hanging over their head that tells them Thorin is the last hope for the Dwarves to find their way out of their darkness. But Thorin has led the company to death and destruction on the quest for Erebor for a thousand years and sees no reason it will be any different this time. Except - Bilbo has never accompanied them on the quest since the first time; with his appearance in Erelin this time, there is the awakening of hope in the fourteenth member of their band. All they have to do is find the rest of their company, reclaim their memories, escape a walled prison-city, and break a thousand year cycle of bad luck and torment. 

Bilbo’s going to need a lot more pipeweed.


	11. The Darkness Deepens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm pretty much the worst person in the entire world for the lack of updates. You have my sincere apologies, if that is any consolation, and my assurance that I am very much back in the swing of things with this story. Updates will hopefully continue regularly to the bitter end. Much love to you all, and I do hope I haven't left things long enough to lose all your interest!

“Right,” Bilbo said decisively. The Dwarves looked up at him, startled from the pensive silence that had overcome them, and Bilbo ran a nervous hand down his face, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. “You need to figure out what you’re doing. You need to find the rest of your company. And you need to get out of my kitchen.” They looked at him in surprise, and he shook his head at them. “Haven’t you all got places you’re meant to be? If the patrols find a bunch of Dwarves, including a Delver, hiding in my kitchen - well, we’re likely to all find ourselves hauled away, aren’t we?”

“He’s not wrong,” Dwalin rumbled. He stood, seeming to fill twice as much space as he ought to take up, and Bilbo wondered absently at his own lack of fear of this huge Dwarf. “Delver, I will see you home if you need protection in the middle of the day.” He bowed his head toward Bofur, who chuckled. 

“I’ve dodged patrols and avoided detection for more than a hundred years. Look after our king, and I’ll look to my own hide.” He tipped his battered old hat at Thorin in a wry gesture. Thorin looked away, and Bilbo wasn’t certain if he was seeing anger or simple frustration in the gesture. 

“So what are we supposed to do?” Fili asked, looking between the older members of their gathering, clearly seeking guidance. “We can’t just go back to work as if nothing has changed!”

“It hasn’t,” Thorin said dully. Fili made a surprised sound of protest, and Thorin glared at him. “You think that because a Hobbit burglar who helped us little enough the first time has returned, that we will succeed now where we have failed again and again? He did not keep us from death the first time, and what can he do for us now?”

“And so you will drown yourself in alcohol and ignore the fact that we have been given another chance?” Fili protested, eyes narrowing in annoyance. “How can you ask us to ignore this opportunity?”

“If you are looking for an opportunity to get yourself killed, you’ll find plenty of those in Erelin,” Thorin growled. “Stay out past curfew, and then see what good Master Baggins may do you, nephew. I will not bury you again.” He stood, a little shaky on his feet, and made for the door without a word to any of them. Fili slammed his fists down heavily on the thick wooden table, making Kili start and draw in on himself. It felt like the breaking of a spell, and Bofur gave a sad sigh, shoulders slumping. 

“Don’t mind him, laddie,” Dwalin told Fili kindly. “He will return.”

“And what do we do in the meantime?” Fili asked, tugging absently on one golden braid in frustration. 

“Find the others,” Bofur suggested. “Thirteen of us, right? Who are we missing?”

“That jumpy little fellow - Ori,” Fili said, counting on his fingers. “And old Balin, of course.”

“Oin as well, but I know where he’s to be found,” Bofur concluded. “That’s seven.”

Bilbo watched Fili’s eyes flick over to his brother, but Kili looked distinctly unwilling to be counted, and Bilbo nudged Fili’s foot gently with the end of his cane, warning him to silence. 

“How do we find the others?” Dwalin asked, eyes narrowed in thought. 

“Maybe I can check the records at Durin’s?” Fili suggested, not sounding particularly hopeful. “They’re the best collection of data on the significant Dwarves of the city, and sometimes family information is recorded. It’s a place to start, at least.”

“What about the Underground?” Bofur suggested.

“Underground?” Bilbo echoed, knowing he sounded foolish. Kili and Fili both looked equally confused, though, and he took some measure of comfort in not being alone in ignorance. “Aren’t you the Underground?”

“The Delvers are only one part of it,” Bofur assured him. “We’re concerned with keeping the old ways, and with the rituals for the dead. The Underground looks to the living.”

“They rescue Dwarves from the prisons and patrols when they can,” Dwalin said somberly. “Take them away, keep them hidden. If our compatriots have gotten in any sort of trouble, the Underground may be our best source of information.”

“And where will we find yet another secret organisation?” Bilbo asked, annoyance and a growing ache in his head sharpening his words. 

“Under the ground, of course!” Bofur said with a cheeky grin. “They’re based in the deepest parts of the mines, where Men cannot go. I’ll have a word with my contacts and see what we may find.”

“Then we have a plan!” Fili said, brightening. “Shall we meet back here in the morning, and see how many we can convene?” They rumbled agreement, over the ignored sounds of Bilbo’s muffled protests, and Bofur and Dwalin took their leave with too-hearty claps of Bilbo’s back and shoulders. He sank into a chair, shaking his head wearily. At least he would have a day free of troublesome visitors, and some time to get his head together. And to smoke a pipe in peace, perhaps. 

“Well?” Fili said, anxious cheer coloring his voice as he hovered by the door. “Aren’t you coming?”

Bilbo looked up, ready to snap at the lad for his assuming attitude - and then realised the words were not directed at him. Fili’s eyes were fixed on his brother, a mixture of expectant hope and wariness leaving him open and vulnerable in the way of the young. Bilbo glanced over at Kili, and his heart broke for both of them. They stood less than ten feet apart, but it might have been miles. Kili looked away, uncertain.

“I should go,” he said quietly, voice even, but he looked miserable. 

“Yes,” Fili agreed enthusiastically. “You should come with me! I’ll show you Durin’s, where I’ve been all this time. You can help me with the research!”

Kili looked up, eyes flashing. “And what good would I do there? I can’t read!”

Fili rocked back on his heels, clearly startled. “You can’t?”

“What good would it do a sailor?” Kili was angry now, crossing his arms protectively over his chest. “You can tell me that I’m your brother all you like, and perhaps it was true, once. But what are we now?”

“You are still my brother! My whole life, I’ve looked for you, and now that you’re here, I’m not about to just let you leave.”

“And you’ll stop me?” Kili laughed, a touch bitterly. “You forget. As far as Governance is concerned, I’m a man, and you’re a Dwarf. They would arrest you in an instant if they saw you interfering with me.”

“But you aren’t a man,” Fili hissed, narrowing his eyes at his brother. “You’re as much a Dwarf as the rest of us, even if you want to hide it from the others. You need to be with your own kind. With your family!”

“Some family! And your Thorin looked so pleased to see me, did he? He didn’t even recognise me!” Kili shook his head, but Bilbo thought the bitterness in his eyes looked more like loss than hatred. “You wouldn’t get it. In the foundling house, we used to make up stories when it was too cold to sleep. Everyone had a story about how their family was out there somewhere, just looking for them. I did too.” He sat down slowly, pulling his knees up against his chest, making himself into a little ball. “I always pretended I had a family that was looking for me, and that they would come and get me, and I wouldn’t have to be alone.” He looked away into the fire, dark eyes miles away, and Bilbo felt his heart clench.

“But you do have a family, and now that we’ve found one another, we won’t have to be alone!” Fili’s voice was high with excitement, and he dropped to crouch in front of Kili, fingers twitching toward his brother. “You’re one of us.”

Kili huffed a laugh, turning back to look at Fili with a roll of his eyes. “I’ve been raised by men, and as a man. I don’t know any more about what it means to be a Dwarf than I do about being part of a family. And you want me to join up with this bunch of madmen, led by a drunkard, and throw away whatever hope I have of getting out of this city?” He shook his head. “Clearly, I’m not Dwarf enough to understand that line of thinking.”

Fili looked up at Bilbo with something like panic in his eyes, and Bilbo did understand. This missing brother had been his cause for so long, and Bilbo had seen them beginning to establish a connection. He stepped forward, subtly urging Fili to move back and give the lad his space. Bilbo sat painfully down on a chair just in front of Kili, and folded his hands deliberately on the table. 

“I’m not a Dwarf, either,” he said, and then had to glare at Fili until the lad stopped protesting and stepped back again. “And yes, they are utterly mad. You could be free of all of it very easily - of this stinking city, and the oppression, and the lightless days.” He shrugged. “I could leave Erelin, too, if I liked. I’ve thought about it many times.”

Kili nodded slowly, leaning forward a bit. “They say not everywhere is like this. There is sunlight in United Gondor, and they say a man can live free if he is willing to work. Why should I not get that freedom? Why must I be bound to the fate of this uncle I have never known?”

Bilbo shook his head. “You aren’t, if you choose not to be. Your fate is your own to direct. But think on this.” He moved forward, leaning closer, and kept his eyes locked on the lad’s. “If what you have wanted all along is a family, and not to be alone, then you must not throw this away simply because you are frightened. These Dwarves - they frighten me, too, but they are loyal beyond words. You will be welcomed by them.”

Kili darted a little glance at Fili, and dropped his voice, whispering only to Bilbo. “They will not, when they know me. I am not one of them, Mr. Baggins! I do not know their language or customs or gods. I hardly know how to be a man. To be a Dwarf seems impossible.”

“Lad, you worry too much,” Bilbo said tiredly. He reached out to pat Kili’s uninjured hand gently. “All of that can be learned. And if Thorin is right, and the memories of your deaths and lives will come back to you over time, all of that will come back as well. But think on this. You have a brother who is desperate to know you, and other Dwarves who have mourned your loss over the years. You have a place where you belong - and that makes you a very fortunate person, man or Dwarf.” He smiled at the lad with as much warmth as his tired heart could muster, and Kili blinked thoughtfully. He looked up at his brother.

“Will they even let me in at this school if I go with you?” he asked, tentative, and Fili grinned so bright that Bilbo thought they would all go blind.

“Of course!” He moved as if to tug Kili to his feet, but stopped when his brother tensed up. “The records-keeper in their library always thought the world of me, and I know he’ll let us in and help us. I expect they’ll let us stay the night as well.” Kili nodded and stood, and Fili stopped him with a hesitant hand. “Does this mean you’ve made your choice? Will you stay with us?”

“In the foundling house,” Kili said hesitantly, “I used to tell them I had a brother who would look for me.”

“You always did,” Fili said. It sounded like a promise, or a prayer. 

Bilbo saw them out, closing the door behind them, and reminded himself firmly that they were not his responsibility to look after. He had his own work to do. 

~~~~~~~~

Bilbo woke to a sound that was so unfamiliar he could not immediately place it. He lay in bed for a long moment, frowning into the thick darkness, trying to work out what he was hearing.

It was silence. He had woken to the silence of sleeping Erelin every day for nearly a decade, rousing in the deep darkness to prepare for the needs of his patients. It had become as familiar to him as the cane in his hand. Now, after days of waking to the screams of terrified Dwarves, it seemed strange and suffocating. He looked toward the window, useless in the depths of Erelin’s gloom, and a longing came over him for light and green places, so strong that he wanted to scream. He threw back the covers and hurried from the room, making his way up the third floor as fast as grief could carry him. 

The sun was rising, somewhere. The deepest shadows of the city were still black and impenetrable, but the sky was lightening, up above the smog. It was not what Bilbo was looking for, though, and he slumped back against the window sill, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. 

He had dreamed of light, green and golden; of shining fields that went on forever, against sparkling seas. It was an image he wanted to burn into his heart, to keep with him forever in the depths of the dark city - and at the same time, he wanted to claw it from his memory forever. He did not know what he was dreaming of, but the fading of the dream left him bereft, and more lonely than ever. He would even have welcomed the nightly screams of the Dwarves, now, or anything that meant he did not have to try to breathe in the huge, cold, empty house.

Bilbo sat, alone, until the first tendrils of light began to creep through the smoke of the city. They were dim and wavering, but they gave enough light to show him the beginnings of a line of Dwarves forming at his door. He jumped up, hurrying to throw on clothing, hardly bothering to make sure his waistcoat was on straight. 

The Dwarves outside the door were all strangers to him, and Bilbo grew concerned with the first look at the ragtag multitude. It was more than the usual collection of injuries and minor illness. They shuffled along, clearly exhausted, and the coughing he could hear up and down the queue was enough to make the hair on the tops of his feet stand up.

The plague had found them.

There was nothing Bilbo could do for them, other than offer what herbs he thought might relieve some of the symptoms. A few of the healthiest promised to come back regularly to see him so that he had some hope of tracking the disease’s progress, but there was no hope in him as he closed the door after the last of them had wandered away, coughing fading too-slowly into the distance. 

At the very least, he consoled himself as he made a cup of tea, none of his particular friends among the Dwarves seemed to have been affected by the disease yet, and with any luck, they would escape that fate. He opened his door to pick up the morning paper, and saw, with a thrill of surprise, that there was personal post for him. 

The letter was addressed in the friendly round hand he associated only with the Shire, and Bilbo’s heart leapt. He dropped the paper on the table and ripped open the cream-coloured envelope, snatching the letter out with no care for grace. 

My dear fellow, the Took’s familiar hand began. We are all most dreadfully sorry to hear of the difficulties of your posting. Naturally, we wish you the very best in these trying times. Our archivists have scoured our records once again in hopes of finding any information that will assist your mission, but to no avail. All historical records indicate that the Dwarves have generally been immune to most of the common illnesses of the world. There is nothing we can do to assist you.

Bilbo looked up from the letter, exhaling slowly, and forced his fingers not to crumple the useless bit of paper up. He blinked, and read on.

Our contacts in the Governance of Erelin inform us the plague is spreading rapidly, and that it seems to have a near-universal mortality rate. We expect that you will do your very best to make the sufferers comfortable and ease their passing. When you find the plague has run it’s course, and there are no more Dwarves in Erelin for you to treat, you are directed to report home in person. We look forward to welcoming you back. 

The Took had signed the letter in his customary scrawl, but there was also a post-script tucked away below that signature. Bilbo read on.

P.S. Please rest assured, we are already at work seeking out a suitable posting where you may fulfill the rest of your Mission. Something with a bit of sun this time, I think, so keep your chin up!

He let his hands fall heavily to the table, releasing the letter from fingers that were suddenly numb. That was it, then. The Took could do nothing to help, and it sounded as if the Governance and the Took were in agreement that the Dwarves of Erelin should simply be left to die. And then, he was supposed to simply return to the Shire and take up a new posting? As if the dim and smoky air of Erelin had not already crept into every part of his being - as if Erelin could simply be left behind as a walled-in burial yard for the Dwarves of Middle-Earth, while Bilbo went on to tend stuffy noses somewhere in the sunshine? His stomach clenched at the thought, and a pounding headache took up behind his eyes.

A knock came at the door, and Bilbo was on his feet in an instant. He could hear Fili chattering away even from behind a closed door. Bilbo snatched up the letter and flung it into the fire, watching to be sure it was really burning, before going to fling open the door. Opening the door, Bilbo was very nearly bowled over by a golden blur of motion, as Fili began moving around the kitchen at top speed, talking all the while.

“We found more of them, Bilbo! Or we think we have, at least. And you’ll never believe it, but that little fellow with the gloves - Ori, is it? We’ve found his brother!”

“Have you indeed?” Bilbo asked mechanically. He pushed his hands into his pockets, trying to hide the way they were shaking. “And is he one of your band as well?”

“Of course! Dori was the records-keeper at Durin’s, and now he’s remembering, too. We told him to come by later and we’ll help him find his brothers.”

“Brothers? I thought you said just Ori.”

“No, there’s another one, too. We think he’s in prison, though, so that’s a knotty problem to undo.” Fili poured himself tea, and made a cup for Bilbo as well without seeming to much notice that he was doing so. “Have you heard from Bofur yet about the Underground?”

“No,” Bilbo said. The words seemed to have trouble leaving his mouth at the moment. The plague was coming, and there was no cure, and he was meant to wait while the Dwarves died and then go home again. “You’re the first back.”

“Kili will be along soon,” Fili told him through a mouthful of toast. “He wanted to speak to the family of the old Dwarf who passed away, but he promised he’d be back.” He swallowed the toast and looked at Bilbo, suddenly sober. “He’s remembered another time of dying, too. I think that went some way to convince him he’s meant to stay with the rest of us.”

Bilbo nodded, turning away to fuss with the paper he had not yet read. He couldn’t face Fili at the moment - not with his mind overflowing with fears of death and disease.

“Hang on,” Fili said sharply, and Bilbo turned halfway to look at him. “Where’s your cane? You’re walking on your own, Bilbo!”

Bilbo blinked, looking down at his own empty hands. As if in response, his leg gave a sharp twinge of pain, and he collapsed hard into a chair as it threatened to give out under him. He rubbed the offending muscle blankly, looking up at Fili for answers. “I suppose I never noticed it all morning! That has never happened to me before.”

“You’re changing, too,” his young friend told him, nodding definitively. “For the better, I think. You’ll be walking on your own in a fortnight.”

“Just - go fetch my cane, would you?” Bilbo said, a trifle snappish. He had no need of false hope. Hope was a worthless thing in Erelin.


	12. A Few More Weary Days

Peace, for Bilbo Baggins, was a fleeting thing these days. 

Not five minutes after Fili walked through his door (again. Would this lad never cease breezing through his doors like they do not exist? It is a strange thought, and one Bilbo cannot quite place, so he lets it float away into the distant hum of intangible song that fills his head these days, and moves on.) there came another knock, and, at Bilbo’s tired wave, Fili scampered off to throw the door wide open. He would never learn caution, Bilbo thought wearily. 

The Dwarf at his door was one who Bilbo was not yet familiar with. He was short and a bit on the stout side, for a Dwarf, with hair as grey as the smoke from Bilbo’s fire. It took a moment for him to realise that the odd shapes and patterns of the Dwarf’s hair were braided in, taking the form of a far more elaborate hairstyle than any Bilbo had previously seen. If Fili’s few glistening braids were a rarity, then this carefully maintained style was something of an absurdity - a relic of a time long past.

It looked right on him.

“I’m sorry to disturb,” the Dwarf said with a bobbing bow. “I do hope I’ve come to the right place. The only maps of the city to be found were more than two centuries old, if you can believe it, and not as much help as I should have liked in finding this house.”

“If you’re here for an injury or illness, come back this evening,” Bilbo muttered tiredly, rubbing at his face. “If, on the other hand, you are seeking danger, treason, and a disruption of your entire life, do come in and have a seat.”

“Sorry, sir,” Fili told the newcomer with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “I’m afraid our Mr. Baggins is not as fond of adventures as we might wish. Still, he is most marvelously hospitable, once he warms up to you!”

“Mind your manners, young fellow,” Bilbo admonished, though there was no sting in it. “Well, aren’t you going to make the introductions?”

“If you are awaiting proper manners from young Oakenshield, you’ll be as grey as me before you find satisfaction,” the new Dwarf said, shaking his head in despair. “I am called Dori. Until recent events forced the closure of our school, I was the head records-keeper at Durin’s Academy. Sadly, despite all the years I have tried to steer him in more gentlemanly directions, Mr. Oakenshield is rather thoroughly lacking in the social graces, beyond a shallow formality.”

Bilbo gave a wan smile at that, half genuine amusement, and pushed a chair back from the table with his cane. “Join me for tea?”

“Yes, thank you!” Dori sat down, fussing at the placement of his impractically long academic robes for a long minute. “Do you have any chamomile?” 

“What sort of a Healer would I be if I didn’t?” Bilbo prepared to stand up to fetch the tea, but Fili darted in, quick as thought, and grabbed the tea kettle. He gave them both a knowing grin and set to work on the tea, whistling vaguely. 

“Perhaps he can be taught after all,” Dori mused. 

“So tell me, if you would,” Bilbo said, making an effort to try for polite conversation. “Fili was a bit vague, as I’m sure you’ll be surprised to learn. What did you find in your search of the records? And are you really one of this gang of Dwarves who seem to be doomed to bedevil me at every turn?”

“I fear so,” Dori admitted. “I had the most peculiar dream a few nights back, and when Fili came to visit me, he saw the scar that had appeared.” He turned his head a bit so that Bilbo could see the scar-tissue that traced down one temple and back along his skull, following the line of his braid. “One question led to another, and it seems I may not be alone in this strange affliction!”

He talked a bit like a book, and Bilbo almost thought he could smell the dust of ancient texts on his clothing - but Dori was watching him with bright, piercing eyes, and Bilbo had to nod slowly. “It sounds that way indeed.” 

“Well, then I thought of my brothers, naturally, and thought I should see if they can be found!”

“I told him about Ori,” Fili put in, pouring the tea with rather more refinement than Bilbo would have expected. “I know he’s one of us, so I’m certain Dori is as well.”

“And our brother Nori, as well. Seems to have landed himself in prison again, though, from what the records can tell me. We’ll have a job of work ahead of us, getting him free!”

“Three more accounted for, then,” Bilbo said. He rubbed his face with his hands, perturbed to find they were still a bit shaky. He hid them away again quickly. It did not do to think of plague and death at such a moment. “I wouldn’t be surprised to see Ori come along today. He’s generally around to have his hands looked at a few times a fortnight, and he’ll be curious as to what’s gone on with this lot, I should think.”

“Nori will be the difficult one, as ever,” Dori grumbled, sipping grumpily at his tea. 

A sudden knock at the door startled them, and Bilbo nearly knocked his tea flying with hands that would not do exactly his bidding. Fili was off and flinging open the door before Bilbo could say a word, but he could see how the lad’s shoulders slumped a bit on seeing the visitor. Clearly, Kili was not back yet. 

Bofur ducked inside with a quick nod of thanks, waiting until Fili had closed the door to offer the sign of Mahal’s followers to them all. “May his hammer shield you,” he murmured. It was warm and heartfelt, and Bilbo could almost feel that kindness in the air. “I have news!”

“What have you found?” Fili leaned in, all open curiosity.

“Our ticket to the Underground,” Bofur grinned. “Oin is making preparations, but we ought to be able to meet with some of the intermediaries this evening - if we can get past the patrols. It’s got to be tonight, though. The gates are only opened morning and evening for the change of shifts, so there’ll be no getting through at any other time.”

“The Underground - they really do exist, then?” Dori put his cup down and pulled out a fine pen and a bit of paper from somewhere inside his robes, already taking down notes. “I had assumed the Underground was all remnants of ancient legends.”

“As real as you and I, my friend,” Bofur said quietly. “I only hope we can gain their trust. Those at the very heart of the Underground are well-known not to see anyone without years of proof of their trustworthiness.”

“We don’t have years.” Bilbo was startled by the words that came out of his own mouth, rough and desolate. He clasped his hands together in his lap, willing the shaking to stop. “No-one in Erelin has that long. We need to get out now.”

“Well, the Underground is our best hope,” Bofur said solemnly. “They’re the only ones who ever manage to get wanted Dwarves out. They’ve saved several of my fellow Delvers from the fires in years past.”

“Out? Out of the prisons?” Dori looked up, hope flaring in his eyes. “My brother Nori is likely imprisoned. Would these Dwarves be able to help?”

“If not them, than who?” Fili asked. He was standing anxiously by the door, darting glances out the peephole every few seconds. 

“If we’re going to see them tonight, we ought to take everyone we can,” Bilbo decided, punctuating that remark with a slap of his hand on the table. “We should go together, in case there’s a chance to leave.”

“What’s the rush, Bilbo?” Fili asked, startled by his vehemence. “I thought we were supposed to be gathering information?”

“Things are changing too quickly, lad,” Bilbo muttered. He rubbed his leg, feeling the familiar pain - but it was only a shadow of itself, which was strange in a way he was not yet prepared to think about. 

Fili looked confused, but was suddenly distracted by some motion outside, and pressed his eye to the peephole again. “Thank the maker!” he murmured, opening the door hard enough that Bilbo feared for his hinges. “Where have you been?”

He hauled Kili inside by one arm, and Bilbo blinked in surprise. The young Dwarf was dressed in Dwarven clothing now - Fili’s, by the look of it. It was all too big for him, and he wore it uncomfortably, as if conscious of every thread of the strange garb, but there was something straighter and more certain in his posture that went well with the new look. Bilbo still would not necessarily have guessed he was a Dwarf at first glance, but now there was nothing about him that screamed Man, either. 

“The docks,” Kili said quietly, looking around. He shrank into himself a bit at the stares he was getting, and Bilbo was pleased to see that Bofur had the tact to sit down and begin a conversation with Dori, removing a few curious eyes. “I had to say goodbye to a few people.”

“You’re sure, then?” Bilbo asked gently, standing and moving forward with care. The last thing he wanted was to startle the lad more. “You’re not going to United Gondor on the ships?”

Kili hesitated a long moment, then tugged aside the collar of his brother’s borrowed clothing. Bilbo hissed in sympathetic recognition as he saw the dark, angry bruising around the lad’s scrawny neck. Fili’s had been just as horrifying to see, but there was a darkness to Kili’s eyes that surprised Bilbo, and he drew back a little. 

“They hanged us,” he said, voice choked. “Fili first, so I could watch.” He shook his head. “There’s never been any sense trying to escape, has there? It comes after us no matter where we are. If I cannot be free, I can at least try to have a family to share the burden with, can I not?”

For all that the lad was older than Bilbo himself, and that he had seen such things as Bilbo could not imagine, there was a youthful vulnerability about him as he stood there, asking for guidance. Bilbo nodded, putting a slow hand out to grip Kili’s shoulder. 

“Yes, I think so,” he murmured. “None of us need be alone any longer.”

Kili nodded, squaring his shoulders, and his chin came up a bit. It felt like something clicking into place, and the music Bilbo could never quite hear seemed to take on a new tone. There was purpose to it now that had not been present before. It felt a bit like going into battle. 

“Right, lads,” he said firmly, dropping his other hand onto Fili’s shoulder. “Time to get moving. You two go round up what members of our sorry band you can. Fili, fetch Dwalin, and he can drag Thorin along, whether the stubborn fool likes it or not. Kili, do you know Balin?”

“The old watchmaker?” One dark eyebrow went up in question, and it was so familiar for an instant that Bilbo felt his breath catch, and then settle back into a normal rhythm. “Of course. He used to make timepieces for the ships.”

“Fetch him along, then - but don’t rush him!” Kili nodded, and Bilbo turned back to the table. “Dori, you should find your brother. I can give you the address of the textile mill where he works. Bring him along to the mines - and for heaven’s sake, do try to keep him from blurting out everything he knows for all Erelin to hear, if you could!”

“And what would you have me do?” Bofur asked as the others scattered to their respective tasks. 

“You, oh Delver, need to talk to me,” Bilbo said solemnly, lowering himself back into his chair and leaning forward toward Bofur. “I will not start a panic, but it must be said. The illness at the docks is spreading, and there is nothing I can do to stop it, or to treat the victims. Medically, I am at a loss. What can be done by other means? What help can you, or perhaps even your Maker, offer?” It was the longest of long-shots, and Bilbo could almost imagine the scorn and dismay of his younger self at hearing such a request. He pushed it away with sharp impatience. Against the lives of all the Dwarves of Erelin, his pride was a small sacrifice.

Bofur’s face seemed to slide slowly down into deep-carved lines of sorrow and care that Bilbo had not seen before. He removed his tattered hat carefully, pressing it to his heart. “We had feared the plague would spread - but this sounds so much worse than we had prepared for. Is there no help to be found from any other corner?”

“None,” Bilbo said, voice tight with frustration. “The Took - the Hobbit in charge of the training and assignments of all the Healers, has told me to come home again when you are all dead. And Governance -” he gave a bitter laugh. “They have given me useless masks to comfort the living, and medication to speed the ill on their way to death. I will not do it, Bofur! I cannot simply accept that your people will lie down and die this way! If I have learned anything of Dwarves in my time here, it is that they are fighters to the end. I would help them fight, if it could be accomplished, but I have no idea where to begin!”

Bofur shook his head, looking old and weary. Bilbo had difficulty remembering they had supposedly lived for a thousand years, sometimes, but it seemed that every moment of that age was clearly visible in his friend’s eyes. “You must understand, Bilbo. We do not pray for miracles. Mahal is our Maker, and the firm rock on which we stand in every moment of faith. We believe he protects and guides us in the way we should go.” He lowered his eyes to the rough surface of the wooden table. “He does not intervene in these ways. I can offer every prayer for the dying, for those who are left behind; I cannot offer any hope that they will find healing.”

Bilbo buried his face in his hands for a weary moment, overcome with frustration. “So your god is as helpless as the rest of us.”

“I would not say that,” Bofur corrected. “But it is not in his nature to interfere. He created the Dwarves to be strong and unyielding so that we could stand against all the forces of darkness. If we are not made of the right stuff to weather this storm, then perhaps we have outlived our purpose.”

“I won’t accept that,” Bilbo said fiercely, pointing a quick finger in Bofur’s face. “I will not have you give up. We have to find a way.” He stood, leaning heavily on his cane for every step as he paced back and forth in front of his clunky pipes, which were giving off the occasional puff of steam. “If I cannot cure them, maybe we can orchestrate a way out? Contained here in the city, there will be no way to stop the spread of the contagion. Given room, though - fresh air, clean water, wholesome food - perhaps there would be a fighting chance for those who are still healthy.”

“Will you now steal us from the hands of death itself, Master Burglar?” Bofur chuckled, eyes alight with a sudden spark of what looked like hope. 

“If I can, I absolutely will,” Bilbo declared. “We must speak to this Underground of yours and see what can be accomplished.” 

It was not long before the door opened again, admitting Fili and Dwalin. A moment later, looking incredibly unwilling, Thorin Oakenshield trailed behind them. Bilbo blinked in some surprise. Thorin was dressed in clean, well-mended clothes, and his hair seemed to have been washed and brushed, so that it hung loose around his shoulders, marked with a few token braids. What made him look like a different Dwarf, though, was his beard.

It had been cut off nearly to the skin, leaving only a short, neat beard and mustache in it’s place.

“What’s happened to your beard, then?” Bilbo blurted out, forgetting that he was not speaking to Thorin. 

He lifted his head, and there was a proud distance in his eyes that Bilbo suddenly felt as familiarly as the heat of a fire. He stumbled back a little, doing his best to play it off as a momentary weakness of his injured leg. There was Thorin, after all - buried away beneath the alcohol and despair, his heart was still beating. 

“I have cut it,” Thorin answered slowly. His voice sounded a bit gravelly. “For remembrance of what we have lost.”

“Aye,” Dwalin growled, eyeing Thorin sharply. “It’s best that you see you do remember. We have nothing to gain by allowing ourselves to forget another moment.”

They stood rather awkwardly around the room, and Bilbo glanced down at his pocketwatch to see the time. The gloom of the city made it impossible to judge time by the fading of the light. He saw they had just under two hours before the great gates would be opened to allow the Dwarves of the day shift to exit the mines, and the night shift to enter. They would not open again until morning for any reason. 

Thorin had turned to Dwalin, leaning close to mutter in his ear something even Bilbo could hardly catch, but which was clearly a complaint. Dwalin hushed him with a glare, and Bofur shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The tension in the air was thicker than Bilbo liked - until a quiet knock at the door indicated a new arrival. Fili flew to open the door, and Bilbo tried not to be amused by how clearly the lad’s body language gave away the identity of the new arrival. He seemed to half-collapse with relief every time Kili came back, now. He stepped back to allow his brother in the door.

Kili walked slowly, supporting Balin on one arm while the old watchmaker leaned heavily on his strength, peering carefully down at his feet as he stepped over the lintel of Bilbo’s door. 

“I hope you will excuse our lateness,” he said, giving a wry smile at the assembled company. “The eyes are not what they used to be, I am afraid, and the lad here has had to serve as eyes and walking stick for me.”

“Brother,” Dwalin breathed, and Bilbo looked at him, startled. He had not heard such open joy in the gruff Dwarf’s voice before. Wonder and relief seemed to pour off him in waves, and Thorin’s head snapped up in surprise. 

“Ohhh,” Balin breathed, stepping forward and letting go of Kili’s arm. The lad faded back into the shadows by the door, and Fili took up a defensive position half in front of him. Bilbo did not think it was entirely a conscious decision. “It has been an age since I heard that voice!”

They met in the middle of Bilbo’s kitchen, clasping one another’s elbows and pressing their foreheads together in a silent greeting of such power and intensity that Bilbo had to look away and cough a little, caught by surprise by the lump in his throat. 

“And where have you been this long while, little brother?” Balin asked eventually, letting Dwalin step back far enough to regard him with tender scolding. “I thought you had given yourself over to brawling and baiting the patrols, until all I would find of you would be your corpse.”

“Aye,” Dwalin admitted gruffly. “I did, for a long while. The Delvers found me at it some years ago. They pulled me out, and I’ve done my best to look after them since, in thanks.”

“And done a lovely job of it, too,” Bofur put in cheerfully. 

“You have grown old, my brother,” Dwalin observed, looking sorrowfully at Balin’s twisted hands and the cloudiness of his eyes.

“So it comes to all of us, in our time,” Balin said with a sigh. “I have watched my life tick away one second at a time, and the world has changed around these old hands.” He looked down at his hands ruefully, and Dwalin clasped one in as firm a grip as he could manage.

“Old friend,” came a rueful whisper from a far corner - and Bilbo turned in surprise. Thorin had taken himself away a bit, and was watching them with such open sorrow and regret that Bilbo hardly recognised the Dwarf he thought he knew. “I did not know.”

Balin squinted at him, but there was little recognition in his clouded eyes. “I know your voice, young fellow. Who are you?”

“No-one,” Thorin said sadly. “Once, though, you were as a father to me. I should have sought you out.”

Balin put out a hand to him, and Thorin came forward slowly. He bent over the old Dwarf’s hand, pressing his forehead to it - a formal apology, in Dwarven terms, and Balin laid a hand on his dark hair. “None of that now, laddie,” Balin murmured kindly. “You are the one I have looked to follow all my life. I will not see you apologise to me now.”

“Well then,” Bilbo said sharply, after an awkward silence began to stretch through the room. “Are we all acquainted, or should we go around the room?”

“We haven’t time for such niceties,” Bofur pointed out. “We need to head for the gates if we are not to miss the opening.”

“The mines?” Thorin objected, jerking upright. “Why would we go to the gates?”

“We are meeting a contact of mine inside,” Bofur answered, tugging his dreadful fur hat back onto his head. Bilbo was surprised it did not fall apart at the movement. “Someone who may be able to help us.”

“What help can anyone offer us now?” Thorin said desolately, shaking his head. 

“You have lost already, if that is the question you open with,” Balin told him, sorrow heavy in his voice. “Come back to us, Thorin. You led us before, and we will follow you again.”

Thorin shook his head wordlessly, but Bofur was already propelling them all out the door with deft motions. “Right then, off we go! Lads, you’d best see to getting a cab for Balin and Mr. Baggins. We’ll meet you at the mines as soon as may be.” He and Dwalin both grabbed Thorin’s arms when he would have stayed to argue, and began to march him away, hushing his protests with muttered explanations. Fili gave a sigh and darted off to hail a cab. Bilbo moved back to the surgery door to flip over his little sign proclaiming himself Out To Tea, and wondered whether there was any hope that he would not be letting his patients down too terribly for a night away.

The ride to the mines was longer than Bilbo had envisioned, and he realised with some surprise that he really had no idea how large Erelin was. It was smaller than once it had been, that was clear. They passed through areas of the city that obviously had been abandoned for decades, if not longer, their odd carven structures falling into disrepair and darkness. 

“This city was full of life, once,” Balin murmured mournfully, staring out into the gathering gloom of the evening. “She has grown as old and weary as this old body, I fear!” 

Bilbo glanced over at Fili and Kili, aware once more that he was looking at what seemed to be the very last of the Dwarves of Erelin. They looked terribly young in the fading light, but their eyes were far too old. They sat side by side in the cab, shoulders barely touching - but Bilbo felt suddenly that they were beginning to grow back together at last, like a broken bone beginning to knit. It would hurt dreadfully for a while, but in the end, they stood a chance of being whole again. 

Piling out of the cab near the gates of the mountain, Bilbo gaped up in surprise. They were far larger and more imposing than he had pictured - and more lovely, carven with great care and skill into patterns that bewildered the eye in their complexity and beauty. They were chained shut, though, with huge iron chains and locks that looked obscene against the grace of the Dwarves handiwork. 

Thorin, Bofur, and Dwalin crept up to join them in the heavy shadows to one side of the gate, and Bilbo was unsurprised to find Dori and Ori tagging along just behind them, Dori struggling to keep his brother quiet in the hush of the evening. 

“The gates will only be open as long as it takes to change shifts,” Bofur murmured. “We must get inside without being stopped. I don’t much fancy being burned to a cinder - again.” He chuckled ruefully, but Bilbo’s stomach clenched at the thought. 

“The mines are only for Dwarves,” Dwalin rumbled, towering above Bilbo in the gloom. “They will object to the presence of outsiders.”

Bilbo smiled a little, though it felt crooked and strange. “I shouldn’t worry, Master Dwarf. They will not object to the Healer of the city coming in to inspect the health and safety of the mines - not with the plague moving through.”

“Well thought, Master Healer,” Dwalin acknowledged with a small bow. “But you were not my concern. The Men who guard the gates will not bother us much, I believe. But the Dwarves themselves will not allow a child of Men inside their mines. It is no place for one of their kind.”

He meant Kili, Bilbo realised with a jolt, and was surprised by the violent jolt of unhappiness in his stomach at the dislike Dwalin radiated toward the lad. He opened his mouth to object, but paused as Kili stepped forward, taking a quick, sharp breath.

“I am no Man, Mister Dwalin,” he offered quietly. “I am as much a Dwarf as you by birth, though I have been raised among Men and with their customs.” He put his chin up a little, and Bilbo saw with delight that Fili had crept around to stand by his side, the two supporting one another in a way that seemed just right. “I don’t know much about the lives of the Dwarves, or how I can help at all - but I carry the scars of my deaths the same as you, and I have every right to enter that mountain with my brother.”

“Your brother?” Thorin’s voice was a raw, rasping croak, and he crept close to stare at the lads, brow furrowed in the now-heavy darkness. “Who are you, boy?”

Kili’s chin shot up, and he stared Thorin in the eye, unblinking. “I am Kili, and Fili is my brother. This much I know.”

“No,” Thorin hissed, shaking his head furiously. “You cannot be. Kili was lost to us!”

“How do you not know your own kin?” Bilbo asked, doing little to keep his voice even. “If you remember everything, as you say, how can he have surprised you so?”

“I did not look for him in this place,” Thorin whispered, staring wide-eyed at the lad. “He was lost and gone.” He stepped closer, never taking his eyes off Kili. “My nephew never looked like anything but himself. I cannot see him in this Man, even now.” 

“Kili?” Bofur whispered. His eyes were wide and almost frightened. “The child I lost to men? How could this be?”

“He grew up with Men, but he is one of us,” Fili insisted. “I know this is my brother, and that he must come with us.”

“He cannot be!” Thorin’s voice was a roar, hushed only as much as they could convince him by frantic hand motions. The noise was beginning to build around them as the night shift gathered near the gate, all quiet chatter and shuffling feet. “He, at least, was meant to escape - as were you!” He grabbed Fili’s arm, staring at him imploringly. “You must understand this, nephew. I could not see the two of you suffer and die with us again!”

“How can there be any escape from this?” Fili asked, touching the spot on his chest where Bilbo knew he wore his first death-scar. “You doomed him to a life alone, among Men! It is your fault that he grew up away from us.”

The Men who guarded the gate were beginning to move forward, as crowds of exhausted Dwarves gathered on the far side, awaiting their freedom. 

“Like it or not, he’s coming with us,” Bilbo said quickly. “Do what you must to see him through, if other Dwarves would stop him. We’ll have time to talk about the situation later, I hope. I only pray these Underground Dwarves of yours can do more for us than you’ve indicated, or we are all lost.”

He put his hand to his pocket to check his watch again, and the tiny vibration of the ticking clockwork gears was a minute accusation in his hand. With every second, the plague gained ground against Erelin. With every second, their chances of saving the Dwarves grew smaller. 

“Underground?” Thorin started, finally tearing his eyes away from the lads to switch that piercing gaze to Bilbo. “I thought we were going to the mines to establish contact with more of our number?”

“The Underground seems our best bet to do that,” Bilbo answered, distracted by the ticking away of time. “They may be able to help rescue Nori, as well. We need to make contact right away.”

“We cannot go to them!” Thorin’s voice was as close to frightened now as Bilbo had ever heard it, and they all turned to look at him, surprised. 

“They are good Dwarves,” Bofur insisted. “Oin has set up the meeting. It is all in motion.”

The chain was ceremonially unlocked and hauled away, one link after another clattering deafeningly to the ground, covering the substance of whatever protest Thorin tried to offer. Bilbo was growing more than a bit tired of the erstwhile King’s stalling and thundering, and he set his eyes forward. The watch ticked on, the seconds of Erelin’s life pouring away, and the gates opened. 

“No going back now, old fellow,” Bilbo told himself. He took a deep breath, tapping his cane nervously on the pavement a few times to nerve himself up, and stepped out of the shadows, trusting to the Dwarves to follow him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, loves! I cannot express my gratitude to you enough! I was rather terrified on posting the last chapter that I would have squandered all your goodwill and lost any interest in this strange tale, but you are all so very lovely to me! I don't deserve it. Please rest assured I will do my best to keep updating quickly, now that I am on a roll again! Love and much love to you all!


	13. All That Dwell Below the Skies

Bilbo advanced on the gate to the mines of Erelin with more than a little trepidation - but, truth be told, there was a certainty about his steps now that he had not felt in many long years. It was a strange sensation, walking on feet that did not quite feel like his own. His leg still hurt with every step, but it was a manageable thing, nothing at all like the pain that had kept him prisoner in his home for long years. He stepped forward, keeping his head high and his steps even, and marched past the bored-looking Men who lounged near the gates of the mines. 

"Healer," Bilbo announced officially, nodding quickly at them as he passed, not daring to stop. From the shuffle of feet behind him, he assumed that his Dwarves were following closely enough that they would not lose one another in the flood of exhausted figures that were emerging from the dark mouth of the mine ahead of them. "I'm here to inspect working conditions. Plague, you know."

"Better you than me," one of the Men said, jerking his head toward the entrance. "Try not to get trampled, little fellow. They've not got much care for the well-being of others, Dwarves."

Bilbo stiffened at that, but at his elbow Bofur hissed a nearly inaudible warning, and he kept his mouth shut. He gave a tight nod and continued on, passing through the wide iron gates, and looked up at the mountain that sloped away above his head - gently at first, and then rushing steeply up toward the sky. It was a difficult thing for a moment, making his feet move, and he swallowed hard. It felt, somehow, as though he would be swallowed whole by this dark and quiet assemblage of stones: as if he would go in, and not return the same Hobbit, if, in fact, he returned at all. 

The crowd surged around them in both directions, as tired Dwarves dragged themselves out of the stupor of a twelve-hour shift, and their slightly-fresher compatriots moved forward to replace them. Bilbo was intensely conscious of the strange make-up of his own band of Dwarves as they moved forward, and was surprised at every step that they did not meet with criticism. Fili and Kili were dressed too richly, and Kili looked more Man than Dwarf even now. Some of their number were far too old to be entering the mines at all, and he himself ought not to be welcome in such a Dwarven place. But Bofur, in his horrible tattered hat, seemed to be recognised among the miners, who offered him deep and respectful nods, or covert gestures that Bilbo could now recognise as traditional signals of fealty to Mahal. 

"Keep walking," Bofur murmured quietly as their pace slowed. They were caught between the two tides of moving bodies, and had little choice but to shuffle along, pressed forward by the crowd at their backs. "They'll be in no rush to cause a disturbance. Not now. Everyone has got somewhere else they ought to be."

In a moment, the mouth of the mountain loomed above them, and Bilbo swallowed hard. A sharp stabbing pain shot through his leg as he was suddenly assailed with doubt - but then they were inside, and there was nothing he could do but move along and try to take in his surroundings. For the first few lengths, there was little but a wide cave mouth to be seen. It narrowed quickly, though, and became a narrower passage through the rock of the mountain, leading onward and downward at a sharp enough angle that Bilbo was forced to try hard not to allow himself to think about the maws of great beasts that might draw one in to one's death in just such a seemingly-peaceful fashion. The ceiling dropped as they marched on, until it stood mere inches above Dwalin's head, and Bilbo drew in one long, deep breath, and then another, and another, trying to still the racing of his heart. 

"What's the matter, lad?" Balin asked kindly, dropping a hand on one shoulder. "Not so fond of our sort of places, then, are you?"

"It's a very nice narrow, airless tunnel, I'm sure," Bilbo snapped, ashamed of his own response, and even more perturbed when his voice came out in a squeak. "But I do prefer to have a bit of room to breathe."

"There's room enough, and to spare!" Bofur said, flashing Bilbo a grin that was entirely unwelcome in the moment. "We keep it this way on purpose. Narrow and short - keeps the Men out, barring an emergency of some sort. They don't care for it, either."

"Little wonder," Kili added, which surprised Bilbo more than a little. He darted a glance back at the lad, who had managed to find himself in the middle of the group, surrounded by much taller Dwarves who blocked him effectively from sight. "They have enough trouble in the holds of their own ships. This might kill a Man." Even in the dim, flickering torchlight that was all they had to light their path, Bilbo could see that the lad was unusually pale, his lips pressed tight together as his eyes traced the confines of their surroundings over and over in rapid succession. "Rats have more room to move free."

“This isn't where we find our freedom, lad," Dwalin said roughly, pushing forward a bit, as if to hurry them all along. "You'll see." Kili pressed his lips tighter still, and Fili looked worried, but merely walked a little closer. Bilbo half wished he had someone looking to his personal fears, himself, but he was on his own. 

"We should not be here," Thorin muttered from near Bilbo’s left shoulder. Somehow he had moved up from the back of their group, and now was glancing around as they pressed on, sounding nearly as tense as Bilbo felt. 

"I don't much like it, myself, but we've got no choice," Bilbo snapped back. "Do try to put a positive face on the thing, though, won't you? We're here for a reason."

"It won't work," Thorin said with dark certainty. "Bofur, I have no doubt that you've done your best, but the Underground will not help us. We will be fortunate to leave this place with our heads still atop our shoulders."

"No reason to despair yet! Mahal may favour the foolhardy, if the old tales are to be believed. And, at any rate, we're nearly there now," Bofur called cheerfully. The roof of the narrow passage dipped even further for a heart-pounding moment, and then they emerged into the most stunning place Bilbo had ever seen. 

It was a vast, glimmering cavern, carved from the living stone of the mountain by what must have been hundreds of years of work. Torches set in cunningly-designed niches in the walls sent beams of amplified light arcing and reflecting along paths that illuminated the whole space as well as if it had been Bilbo's own kitchen. It was no longer dark and threatening. The cavern was a living thing. Dwarves moved along paths and bridges carved in the stone high above Bilbo’s head, and in the depths below the broad road on which they stood. There was more light and life in this one place, he thought dazedly, than he had seen in all of Erelin in his sojourn there. 

“Here,” Dwalin said solemnly, “we can still be free. Here, we are still khazad.”

Bilbo gave a little shudder, as something strange seemed to crawl down his back. There was a thrum of energy in the air around them, and the Dwarves seemed to move with a purpose, here, that he had not seen in the world above. The very quality of the air seemed different, and the sights and sounds around him were of a different world. Here, in the deep places of the earth - in the Dwarven places - Bilbo was an alien, an interloper. He did not belong. 

“We need to leave,” Thorin growled. He was nearly vibrating with tension, Bilbo noted with an absent surprise, and he turned to look at their erstwhile leader more carefully. Thorin looked hunted. It was, Bilbo thought, more than a little amusing, to see such a frightful figure reduced to such a state by nothing more than a short walk into a mine. It was also more than a little concerning, if this was the Dwarf who was meant to lead the Dwarves to some sort of freedom. Not exactly the sort of figure who inspired great confidence.

“Delver!” The low greeting took Bilbo by surprise, and he spun around to see who had spotted Bofur. It was Oin, already bobbing his head in pleased recognition at all the Dwarves he knew, and he beckoned to them at once. “This way. They’re waiting for us.”

The journey rapidly became a blur for Bilbo after that - one twisting, winding way after another that only seemed to lead them further in and down with every increasingly-painful step. It was not long before he realised that he would never be able to find his way out on his own. His throat tightened a little at that, and he drew in a few careful breaths, reminding himself that these Dwarves had reason enough to look after him and see him safe to the surface again. The longer they went on, though, the smaller and more lost he felt. Curiously, his companions seemed to have rather the opposite reaction. They walked taller and straighter as they moved, and their shoulders seemed to grow even broader, their forms more stocky and imposing with each step. They were indeed Dwarves here, Bilbo understood, in a way that they had never quite been on the surface. 

After what seemed like hours to the poor Hobbit, the company ducked suddenly into a side-tunnel that led into a small chamber, where Oin let them stop for a few minutes. Bilbo eyed the ancient Dwarf suspiciously. Where Bilbo was half out of breath, puffing a little and rubbing surreptitiously at his leg, the old fellow looked hale and hearty. Balin was the same. If Bilbo was not mistaken, there was a clearness to his eyes that had not been there in some years. It would be just like Dwarves, of course, to flourish in the dark of the stone where no living thing ought to survive, Bilbo thought peevishly. 

“This is as far as I know,” Oin said loudly. “Even Delvers are not accorded more trust. The Underground will meet us here.”

“I cannot remain,” Thorin said. He glanced around, seeming more trapped than ever. “I must leave you here.”

Dwalin shifted almost imperceptibly, and somehow managed to block the exit through which they had come. Thorin glared at him, but even that subsided as Dwalin crossed his massive arms. 

“This Underground,” Bilbo asked, finding himself nervous all at once. “Are they - dangerous?”

“Depends on who you’re talking to,” Bofur told him somberly. “Most Dwarves have nothing but respect for them, if they even know the Underground still exists. They help us where they can, though always through layers of secrecy.”

“But what about the explosions?” Ori asked, wide-eyed. “They said, in the textile mill, that it was the cults to blame. But you’re the cults, and you’re not blowing things up, so it must be them, mustn’t it?”

“Mahal take your cults!” Oin grumbled, glaring at the nervous Dwarf until Ori slunk behind Dori, looking shame-faced. “The Children of the Maker have never hurt a living being, nor taken part in the spreading of fear.”

“So it is the Underground to blame, then?” Bilbo pressed. He had read about the explosions and attacks over the years - on the train stations and depos, on the harbor and the dwellings of the few Men brave or foolish enough to live in Erelin. The Governance had always credited the mystical cults of the Dwarves with such attacks - but Bilbo had learned, of late, to take care with what he believed from them. The memory of the little chest of deadly precautionary measures against the plague sprang sharply to mind, and he pushed it away fiercely. 

“Blame? I’d say they’re to be thanked.” Dwalin’s rough growl startled several of their number, making Ori jump, and Bilbo shrank away. “Anything that takes away from the stinking Men is a gift to the Dwarves.”

“That’s not exactly our philosophy, but it will do for now.” A new voice, rich and deeply amused, suddenly entered the conversation. “As witness to your character and trustworthiness, of course.” 

Bilbo felt an impossible surge of recognition at that voice, and turned to greet the newcomer with something like real fondness, for some reason. He blinked into the gloom at the narrow mouth of the far entrance to their little cavern, mind already preparing him for the improbably rotund shape of the Dwarf to whom that voice belonged. 

“Ah, Bombur!” Oin called cheerfully. “And Bifur with you as well, I expect?” 

Another voice answered, though not in any words that Bilbo recognised, and two new Dwarves moved forward enough for the light to hit them - a blessing for Bilbo’s entirely unDwarvish senses. 

It was a sick shock, looking at them, and Bilbo could not work out why. They were dressed exactly the same as the other miners they had passed on their way in, and were both of average heights and builds. One of the two had wild black and white hair and beard that half covered his face; the other had the rarer ginger hair that Bilbo had always noted with interest when treating Dwarves. Hobbits were never ginger. 

But there was something wrong to the look of them that he could not pin down. They moved into the cavern easily enough, and Oin made introductions all around, ending with the newcomers. 

“This is Bifur,” he said, bowing politely to the wild-haired Dwarf. “You will have to excuse him from polite conversation, I’m afraid. He only speaks the old tongue, and as I cannot hear him, and he will not respond to my own words, we have had little to discuss.” Despite this, he clapped a hand on Bifur’s shoulder, and got a friendly sort of glower in return. 

“The old tongue?” Fili asked, looking improperly excited. “Khuzdul, you mean? I haven’t spoken much since our instructor passed away a decade ago, but I used to be quite good in school.”

“Then you may converse to your heart’s content.” Bofur said, clapping him on the shoulder, and moving forward toward the other newcomer with a cheeky grin. “And you, there? What shall we call you, and what language must we speak?” 

“Bombur,” he said, his voice just as rich and welcoming as it first had been. “And whatever you speak, you’d better make it mean something. We have no time to waste on useless outsiders.” The words were harsh, but not unkind. 

Bilbo looked again at Bifur, and then nearly fell over as his head spun wildly when he glanced back at Bombur. For a moment, in the corner of his eye, he saw the Dwarf as he was meant to be - round and cheerful, florid of complexion, and with a truly impossible beard. But as soon as he looked directly at him, all he could see was the shrunken figure of a Dwarf past his prime, who seemed thin and dull, somehow - faded, perhaps. Whether it was the work in the mines that had done it, or merely the slow wearing away of souls that Erelin seemed to have perfected, Bombur was no more than a fraction of the Dwarf he ought to have been.

“Then let us waste none,” Balin declared, spreading his hands wide. “Lead on, and we shall follow.”

Bombur ducked his head in a little bow of agreement, and Bifur spun on one heel, marching quickly off into the direction from which they had come, leaving the rest of them struggling to keep up. Bilbo stifled a groan of dismay as he was forced again to keep up with their pace, and his leg already hurt abominably. 

“If I may ask,” Bombur said after a little while of the same absurd twisting and turning through a maze of passages, “what are you, sir?”

“Me?” Bilbo asked, taken aback. It startled him for a moment, not to be recognised. “I’m the Healer. Or do you mean what race?”

“That, certainly,” Bofur said frankly. “We are not in the habit of allowing even fellow Dwarves into the heart of the Underground. Are Rabbit-folk like yourself trustworthy?”

Bilbo puffed up a bit in indignation at that, and nearly tripped over his own feet. A glance forward for his own protection put Bofur back in his peripheral vision, where he suddenly caught a glimpse of the Dwarf as it seemed he ought to be, huge and cheerful - and then it was gone, as Bilbo looked at him properly again. It was disconcerting, to say the least. 

“Rabbit-folk, indeed! I’ll have you know I am a Hobbit, sir - known to you as a Halfling, perhaps, though that is something of an unacceptable term in polite circles these days. We are generally considered a very reliable people, though-” he paused for a minute, weighing honesty against the need to earn the trust of these shadowy folk. “There are some that deserve no more respect or trust than any of the worst Men. You must take us as you find us, I fear, and not trust to our reputation, but to the character of each Hobbit in particular.”

At that, Bombur looked somberly pleased, and clapped a friendly hand on Bilbo’s shoulder, which nearly knocked him over. “And so I think we shall,” he said warmly. It was the nicest thing anyone had said to him in a long while, it seemed to Bilbo, and he walked on with a great deal more comfort.

At the back of the pack Thorin was dragging his heels dreadfully, and arguing with Dwalin in a sullen whisper, the words of which could not be made out individually. Their group had become spread out nearly in single file by the time they stopped again, another long eternity of walking having taken a toll on Bilbo’s injured leg. He let himself lean heavily against the wall of the passage when the Dwarves in front of him stopped moving, and groaned quietly as he tried to rub a bit of the ache out of the wreckage of his leg. His hand ached from the weight he had been forced to put on his cane to see him through the trip, and he hoped quietly to himself that their business down here would take a long while indeed, for if he had to make the trip back at once, he would certainly not be able to make it more than a few minutes of limping before giving up for good. 

Bifur made his way back from the front of the pack, with Fili trailing eagerly behind him, having apparently pestered him with Khuzdul the entire way down. The members of the Underground spoke together for a minute with quiet, sharp exchanges of unknowable words, until Bombur nodded sharply. His image wavered in Bilbo’s eyes again, flickering back and forth between the shape he ought to be and the shape he actually was. Bilbo decided to give up looking at him at all, if possible. It was something more than sad, to see what had become of a Dwarf that Bilbo was now certain he must have known once, long ago in a different life. 

“We will separate here,” Bombur declared. His words rang out through the corridor, and there seemed to be no arguing with him. “This company is too many. We will not bring so many into the center of our confidence at once. Besides, my cousin tells me that the young ones, here, may be able to help to read some of our old texts that we have not deciphered yet.”

Kili’s eyes went wide at that, but Fili nudged him hard with an elbow, and he kept his mouth shut. 

“We will help as much as possible, of course,” Fili said formally. In a moment, their company had been split in two, with Fili and Kili and Dori and Ori and Oin headed off to the left with Bifur, while Bombur and Balin and Thorin and Dwalin and Bofur and Bilbo set off the other way, following a path that finally seemed to wind upward. It was a pleasant change, for a moment - but Bilbo’s leg began to ache fiercely, soon, and he knew he was slowing them down. 

“Nearly there, little Healer,” Bombur assured him. He chuckled a little, though there was so little life to it that the back of Bilbo’s throat ached at the sound. “A shame indeed that you cannot see to healing yourself.”

Bilbo bit back the sharp retort he immediately wanted to make about the culpability for that injury lying in the hands of Dwarves, as he glared down at the ruin of his leg. It was hurting terribly, yes - but nowhere near as much as it ought. For the better part of a decade, he had barely been able to hobble through his own home, resting as often as possible, and never doing so much as a quarter hour’s worth of sustained walking. Now, he had been walking for close to two hours, if he had to take a guess, and he was still on his feet. 

“Heal myself, no,” he murmured slowly. A hand wandered slowly down to prod experimentally at his leg, and Bilbo shook his head. “And yet, it seems I am being healed. I cannot understand it.”

“If only we were all so blessed,” Bombur said. There was a solemness upon him that sat at odds with what Bilbo expected, and he shook his head again to clear away the fleeting overlain image of a Bombur who seemed to be so much more vibrantly alive than the worn down chap who trudged along beside Bilbo, matching his pace to Bilbo’s shorter stride. It was as if he could see both worlds at once when he looked at the tired miner - ancient memory laid across the wrongness that was the world he lived in now, with Bombur flickering back and forth in his perception across the line of that memory, over and over. 

“You don’t, ah,” Bilbo asked suddenly, scrunching up his nose at his own awkwardness. “You don’t know me or anything, do you? Not secretly carrying around ancient grudges against Hobbits or the like?” It was an odd question to ask of a new acquaintance, but Bilbo was growing weary of the whole process of discovery that they all seemed to be entangled in. Bombur shook his head, clearly bewildered, and Bilbo let out a slow sigh of relief. “And Bifur?”

“No idea,” his companion said. “We’ve been friends for a good many years, here in the darkness, and he has never spoken of your kind.”

“That’s something, at least.” Bilbo sighed, and stubbed a toe on yet another rocky outcropping that was invisible in the dark of the gloomy tunnels. “Gandalf’s beard, I don’t know how you move about down here in this darksome maze! I can’t go ten paces without tripping.”

“I expect I’d be just as hopeless in the world above,” Bombur chuckled. “You dig in where you’re placed, I suppose. This is natural to me after so many years.”

“So you just live down here?” Bilbo’s curiousity was piqued. “How many Dwarves live this way? Couldn’t you all just leave Erelin and live here?”

“A few of us dwell here in the depths. We can’t afford to have our absence noticed, so only the most wanted of us remain here. And, lad,” Bofur laughed a little, darkly. “Think on what you’re asking. If we were to hole ourselves up in here, how long would the Men wait before coming after us? They would flood these mines in a moment if they had any idea of the threat lurking below their feet.” Bilbo shivered a little at the darkness of that statement, but he could not counter it. The Men would do whatever they thought beneficial if they considered themselves at risk from the Dwarves. They had proven that much often enough. 

After a few more minutes of silence (or it would have been silence, but for the sound of their footfalls on rock and the heated argument between Dwalin and Thorin at the back of their company) they came to a gentle halt in a little alcove. The route ahead of them was pitch-black, and even the Dwarves in the company looked a little hesitant to go any further. Bombur did not explain anything to them there. Instead, he walked a few paces, to a spot in the cavern where the roof suddenly rose a good twenty feet in the air. It seemed to Bilbo as if he were standing on the inside of a giant soap bubble trapped within the rock, and he had to hide a twitch of the laughter that bubbled up at the absurd notion. 

And then he sang - a deep, rumbling song that seemed to get inside the stones and echo all around Bilbo, until he could feel it in his bones and every vessel of his body. It was caught and reflected around by the formation of the rock, deepened and enhanced by it’s own vibrations. He caught his breath at the sound, and when Bombur stopped after just a few phrases, Bilbo had to let out a sigh so deep that it was nearly a sob. 

“Password,” Bombur explained with a somewhat sheepish shrug of one shoulder. 

“And now?” Dwalin demanded, shifting his weight solidly onto both feet, as if bracing for an assault.

“Now, we decide whether you are trustworthy or dead.”

The voice came out of the darkness, rolling and echoing over itself as Bombur’s had done, and it carried such a mixture of menace and straightforward honesty and twisted amusement that Bilbo was quite bewildered. He peered into the dark so intently that when two solid figures emerged suddenly, he took an involuntary step backward and trod on Bofur’s foot. They were both Dwarves, clearly, and they wore similar dark outfits that seemed to have been cobbled out of scraps of leather and cloth, with bewildering glints of metal in unexpected places. The taller of them stepped forward again, and such dim light as there was glimmered dully on his golden hair. 

“What have you brought us, Bombur? Friends, foes, or food?” His voice was not the one Bilbo had heard before. It was a laughing thing, like the merry dance of flames that consumed everything in their path. 

“Friends - so says the Delver,” Bofur said, though he didn’t sound entirely certain himself. 

“The Delver’s got no place in the Underground,” the newcomer said, tipping his head curiously to the side. “We may be buried, but we aren’t dead yet!” He grinned at his own joke, bright and dangerous, and Bilbo shivered a little, though he could not have said why. 

“Don’t toy with the visitors, brother.” The other newcomer stepped forward, shaking her head - and Bilbo could see and hear quite plainly now that she was indeed female. He blinked at her. The Dwarves had always insisted that their women were just as fine miners and labourers as the menfolk, but the Men did not hold with mixed workplaces. Female Dwarves, as far as Bilbo knew, had always been restricted to aboveground work in the textile mills and the like. But this Dwarf was clearly as comfortable down in the deep as the rest of them, and there was no weakness in her as she looked them over with stern, dark eyes. “You don’t look like much use. What do you want from us? If it’s asylum, you’re out of luck. We’re full.”

Bilbo blinked up at her for a moment, and then realised that no-one seemed to be answering her questions. A quick glance around revealed that Dwalin was staring at her in what seemed like wonderment, while Bofur and Balin were locked together in a silent exchange over who was to answer, and Thorin - 

Thorin was nowhere to be seen. 

Bilbo blinked in annoyance, and turned back to answer, since that task had apparently fallen to him, which Thorin had been developing a means of vanishing into thin air. 

“I am Bilbo Baggins, the, er - the Healer of Erelin.” Down there in the deep dark, it sounded absurd, and Bilbo flushed a little, relieved that no-one would be able to see it in the dark. “We’ve come to see if you can help us escape the city.”

The bright-haired Dwarf laughed at that, throwing his head back. His sister gave a small snort of amusement and crossed her arms, letting her long beard flow over her arms like water over stone. “Master Healer, if we could do that, don’t you think we would be long gone ourselves?” She pronounced his title like an accusation, and Bilbo winced. “We’re all trapped here. Make the best of it and move on with such life as you have been given.” She nodded sharply at them, a clear dismissal, and turned to leave. 

“No, wait!” Bilbo said, darting forward a step. The brother was there in an instant, his presence a silent, smouldering threat, and Bilbo swallowed hard. “Do you even know what’s going on up there? If we don’t get people out, they’re all going to die. All of the Dwarves!” He stepped forward again, glaring defiantly at both of the Underground Dwarves. “I’m told you have the contacts no-one else has. I’m also informed that you may be in the business of causing some of the explosive trouble that has plagued the Men of this city. If I’m wrong, send me away - but if I’m right, you’d better be prepared to help, or have the death of all of Erelin on your consciences.”

They glanced quickly at one another, and then looked intently at Bilbo and his company. 

“What do you know?” The question was sharp and bright from the Dwarf who still towered threateningly over Bilbo. 

“Plague,” he said curtly. “Maybe brought about by the Governance, maybe not. Either way, it’s spreading fast, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I have no medicines, no preventatives, no recourse to any sort of assistance.” 

“Err, Bilbo,” Bofur hissed in his ear. “Weren’t we supposed to be asking them to help us find the rest of our company?” Bilbo waved him off sharply, not taking his eye off the dangerous-looking siblings before him, who were conferring in hushed tones. He was right about his approach, he was certain. 

“Where’s Thorin?” Bilbo hissed back. Bofur looked around in surprise, then held up a quick finger, and drifted carefully away to seek out their missing companion. 

Finally, the Dwarves of the Underground seemed to reach a consensus, and turned back to face them. 

“We will speak with you,” the brother said formally. “I am Frerin of the Underground, and this is my sister Dis. Baggins and Bofur - we know your names, now - but who are your companions?”

“Balin,” Balin said cheerfully, stepping forward and spreading his arms wide. “And my brother, Dwalin. And our leader -” he broke off, looking around in confusion. “Where’s he gone?”

Dwalin spun around, looking suddenly furious. “I take my eyes off him for one minute…” he growled. Bilbo rolled his eyes hugely. It was just like Thorin, somehow, to be missing just when they needed him. 

“Is this your missing Dwarf?” 

Dis had apparently found Thorin. In fact, she had him quite solidly by one ear, with a wicked-looking dagger-blade to his throat, and an even more frightening look in her eyes. Bilbo swallowed hard, suddenly quite grateful to be anyone other than Thorin Oakenshield.

“Hello, sister,” Thorin said quietly. There was a broken quality in his words that made no sense - until Bilbo put the pieces together, and his heart leapt into his throat. If this was Thorin’s sister, then she was the mother of Fili and Kili. The mother who had had her children stolen away from her by the very brother she had by the ear - the brother she looked more than ready to kill in cold blood. 

Bofur swore softly beside Bilbo as he reached the same conclusion. He clapped a heavy hand on Bilbo’s shoulder, and patted it a few times. “Well, lad, it’s been a pleasure knowing you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I'm the worst kind of trash. I apologise most humbly for completely absurd wait between chapters. But I swear to you, I am FINISHING this fic - and that properly. I will not abandon it. If you've read this chapter, my sincere thanks to you!


	14. And Silence Keep No More

It seemed to Bilbo that things went very quickly for a little while after that, and then slowed down to a crawl, and then trotted off again at their own pace, leaving him, bewildered, in the midst of things. There was an awful lot of shouting for a bit, and a truly impressive moment where Thorin Oakenshield was reduced to speechlessness, and then people were shouting again, and Bilbo thought it a very real possibility that Thorin was going to get his throat cut right then and there. 

In another time, a mere fortnight before, he might well have stood and watched it happen. He was no longer the same disinterested Hobbit he had been, now - but these days, he wasn’t quite sure what he was. Bilbo wasn’t really interested in arguing about things like blame and whether or not he deserved such an ending, and he wasn’t concerned with his duty as the Healer. As he watched the scene before him with a distressed fascination, there was a sudden, traitorous part of his heart that could only scream desperately at him - ‘not again, not again, not again’ - and he darted forward, putting his hands up in his most conciliatory manner. 

“Now, please, everyone,” he managed, in the best official voice he could conjure up, “let’s just settle down for a moment, hmmm? Can’t we talk about this?”

“What is there to talk about?” Dis snapped. She took her eyes off Thorin just long enough to shoot a dangerous glare at Bilbo. “He stole my children from me. I warned him when he took my babe that if I ever saw him again, I would have his head!” 

Bilbo spent a moment composing himself - and quickly rethinking everything he had ever thought he had known about Dwarves, because he had been under the mistaken impression that it was the warriors and scrappers like Dwalin who were the most frightening among the race. Dis had destroyed that belief in only a moment. She was pure fury, anger now radiating from her coldly as she spoke in a calm, controlled voice that was the most frightening sound he had ever heard. 

“I - I can’t argue with that,” he said, holding out a hand as if to pacify her - and suddenly having the oddest feeling that he had done this with something before - something else terrifying and majestic. “You’re well within your rights, oh lady, and I don’t think that anyone could blame you. But I think we need him alive.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“It’s a long story, and I don’t know that I’m the best one to tell it,” Bilbo prevaricated - and then babbled on again when her eyebrows took on a distinctly threatening tone. “Look, I’ll explain it all, I will! Just don’t kill him yet.” He sighed, and patted his damaged leg meaningfully. “I understand the impulse, really I do. Thorin destroyed my leg, my life, and very nearly my sanity - but I gave up on getting revenge on him despite it all. Please, just give us time to explain.”

Dis looked at Thorin for a long while, and then stepped back, gradually letting go of his collar and removing her knife. “Frerin, keep him under guard, will you? I don’t want him going anywhere until I say so.”

Frerin grinned ferally, pulling out a long knife of his own and tossing it meaningfully. He caught it, without ever taking his eyes off his brother. “Have I ever let you down?” 

Dis rolled her eyes, and carefully tied her long, dark hair up into a messy knot at the back of her head. She straightened her shoulders and looked them over, then beckoned. “Come on. If this is to be a long story, I’d rather keep my hands busy while I hear it.” She started off into the darkness at a breakneck pace, even for a Dwarf, and Bilbo groaned as he set off behind her. He found himself trotting to keep up, but was comforted by the fact that his companions were likewise struggling in the dark. Thorin was kept in the middle of the pack now, with Frerin and his knife to hand, and Bilbo wondered absently how much of his life (or rather his lives), in relative terms, had been spent running around dark places trying to keep up with people a great deal bigger than himself. Far more than he cared to admit, that was certain.

They didn’t go far this time - a small mercy, for which Bilbo was infinitely grateful - and Dis brought them to a sudden halt in a middling-sized cavern that had been transformed into a well-appointed workroom. Waving a dismissive hand at them to indicate they should settle themselves, Dis moved behind a sturdy workbench, pulling on a pair of brass-rimmed goggles as she spoke. 

“Your story, then, Healer. It had better be convincing.” She bent close to the bench and began working on something that Bilbo couldn’t quite see on the high worksurface, but which seemed to involve an uncomfortable frequency of little flashes of light and small explosions. 

“Yes, I - well,” Bilbo began eloquently. “I don’t properly know where to start. I suppose it all began when Fili came crashing into my house.”

Dis looked up sharply at that, and Frerin gave a low whistle of surprise. “Fili? I thought he was still locked away in that school!” 

Bilbo drew in a deep breath, only now beginning to realise just how much of the story he needed to tell. It was a long and painful process, explaining all of their odd symptoms to Dwarves who had never experienced such dreams or scars. Bofur showed some of his own scars as proof, though, and that went a long way to easing the suspicion that darkened their faces at his improbable tale. He tried to tread rather carefully around the issue of Thorin’s treatment of Fili, and, indeed, his general state of degradation, but he saw the glares both of Thorin’s siblings directed his way. There was not a great deal of love to be found in this little family just now, he realised sadly. 

But it was the story of Kili that caused the most trouble, naturally. When Bilbo finally explained exactly where he had been, and why they had not recognised him as a Dwarf for so long, Frerin actually growled, and Dis accidentally set fire to some small things on the workbench. 

“Do you mean to tell me that, because of my brother’s arrogant certainty that he knew what was best for all of us, my child was raised by Men?” Dis asked, in a low, dangerous voice. She moved out from behind the workbench, holding a dangerous-looking tool like a weapon, and advanced on Thorin. Frerin stood, unmoving, beside him, and Thorin had nowhere to run. “You mean to tell me that my son suffered at the hands of Men - that my children grew up apart, when they should have grown together like the roots of trees on the mountains? All because my misbegotten fool of a brother believes himself to have lived other lives, and thought he knew better than their own mother?” She never raised her voice, not one increment, but Bilbo stepped quickly back, wondering how rude it might seem if he darted behind the workbench for cover. 

Thorin raised his head slowly to look at his sister, and there was so much deep sorrow in his expression that Bilbo could not tear his eyes away. He did not speak a word, but neither did he look away. Thorin and Dis would have seemed to have been locked in a childish staring competition, were it not for the stakes that Bilbo knew were in play. Finally, Dis shifted a little, and spoke.

“Tell me, Thorin. Now that we stand here, looking over the consequences of your decision, do you still believe you were right?”

Thorin’s face underwent the smallest, subtlest change - and Bilbo thought that what he was looking at was actually remorse. “No,” Thorin rasped after a moment. “I should never have separated them.”

“And you should never have taken them from me,” Dis hissed, hand tightening on the grip of her tool. “What you have done to this family cannot be undone. My sons still live when I thought them dead or locked away, and yet there is little joy in it for me. What life is there for them now? What hope to be found in this foul city, or following the foolish plans of their reckless uncle?” She shook her head, and sorrow darkened again to fury in her fair face. Bilbo snatched a quick, calming breath, and then started forward again.

“But don’t you understand, that’s just what I’m saying! There’s no hope for any of you in Erelin. We’ve got to get the Dwarves out while there are any yet living!”

Dis spun on him, and Bilbo fought every instinct he possessed, willing himself to remain calm. “What are you talking about, Healer? You’ve talked and talked of my brother and his band of the cursed, but you’ve not told me why it means we must leave Erelin.”

“It doesn’t. It’s the plague, as I told you!”

“This plague,” Frerin said slowly. “You say it’s coming from the docks?”

“Yes,” Bilbo snapped, growing impatient with repeating himself. “That’s where it started, and where most of the cases have been located.”

Frerin looked over to Dis, shrugging an easy shoulder. “Blow up the docks, then?”

“Should help, at least,” she replied, suddenly all business. She holstered the tool she’d been threatening Thorin with, turning her back on him in a clear dismissal, and swept back over behind her workbench. “We still have enough explosive left over from the track bombing to make a decent start. Fire should do the rest. Burn all the ships?”

“I do love the smell of the flames,” Frerin said happily. 

“No, no, wait!” Bilbo babbled, as his stomach turned to lead. “Blow them up? Blow up the docks and the ships? That’s your plan?”

“It’s been our general plan of action these past twenty years or so,” Frerin told him cheerfully. “I see no reason to change it now.”

“So you have been the ones doing the sabotage?” Bofur asked, brow wrinkling in concern. “And here we Delvers have been getting all the credit!”

“We’re not concerned with the credit,” Dis said absently, now digging through a stack of what looked like city plans that were piled high on one corner of her table. “As long as we’re hurting the Men and undermining their control, it’s enough.” 

“But what about the Dwarves who get caught up in it?” Bilbo demanded. There was a hard little core of anger in the pit of his stomach that seemed to be waking up, kindling into a flame of his own. “Do you know how many are arrested, even executed, after your raids? Do you know how many more restrictions I’ve seen placed on the freedoms and movements of Dwarves in the past few years because you’ve got the Governance so frightened? What you’re doing isn’t helping anyone!”

Dis slammed a hand down on her table, sending some of the smaller pieces plummeting to the floor with a heart-stopping crash that made Bilbo jump. “There is nothing else left to us!” Her voice was a shout, now, and Bilbo locked his knees, trying to stand tall in the face of that fury. “No future, no hope, no family! My children were stolen by my own brother! What else were we to do? Our city is a prison, ruled over by Men who hate us for existing. There is nothing left to us but destruction.” 

Frerin laughed merrily - a shockingly odd sound, given the circumstances - and clapped a friendly hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. “Besides, little Healer - haven’t you ever watched things burn? It’s a cleansing, in a way.” His face hardened a little, though he still smiled. “Better to burn the whole city and be done with it.”

“By all that’s green, is there NO sense left in the entire race of Dwarves?” Bilbo shouted, surprising even himself. His hands were shaking, but he put that aside and pressed on. “Despair and destruction, that’s all you lot can see! You’ve all given up! I seem to be the only one left with any thought of saving the remnants of your miserable race!” He stomped over toward Thorin, and jabbed a finger at his chest. “You! Apologise, and mean it! You’ve got yourself into this situation, but there’s still time to make things right again, if you don’t give up.” He pointed the same finger at Frerin, whose manic smile had faded now into a more sane look. “You - no setting fire to anything! I mean it! Not until we’ve got a plan.” He wanted to point at Dis in the same way, but his nerve failed, and he settled for extending a hand toward her imploringly. “Lady, can’t you look for what hope may be left? Your sons are alive - maybe not as you would have wished them, but they are fine young Dwarves. Go to them, and see what hope is still left.”

He looked around at all of them, most of whom were staring at him in shock. “Don’t despair,” he begged them. “It’s not finished yet. Bofur, you’ve told us again and again that you are not abandoned. Hold to that! There is life, still, outside this city. I’ve lived there and seen it! There are clear skies where you can see the stars dance all through the night and into the morning, and little rivers that still run clean and good, and a whole world with no walls around it. There are green and growing things outside the walls of this city.” He extended his hands out to them all, feeling like he was trying to offer them the world, and not at all sure they were interested in it. 

“What you say is a dream,” Thorin said slowly. “You speak of a world that no longer belongs to us. Dwarves have no part in it.”

“Only because you’ve decided you don’t!” Bilbo protested. “Erelin will be the death of you all, if you stay. Come with me, instead. I’ll show you the green places, if only we could get out of this city.”

“That’s all you want?” Dis asked slowly. She was firmly under control again, and pushed her goggles up onto her forehead to think. “A way out?”

“For as many as possible,” Bilbo said fervently. “It’s the only hope the healthy Dwarves still have.”

Dis and Frerin exchanged a long, meaningful glance, and then Dis spun on a heel and started off deeper into the dark. “We may have something,” she called back over her shoulder, voice echoing in the halls. “We were trying to develop a way of getting high enough above the city to be out of reach, and to be able to target the places of Men more accurately, but it just might help you now.”

Through a series of long corridors they hurried, and Bilbo cursed a bit as his leg began to throb in earnest, pushed past all of the limits. To his surprise, Thorin caught up with him and offered him an arm.

“What are you doing?” Bilbo asked, blinking at him in shock.

“It was I that injured you,” Thorin said stiffly. “I am at fault. Allow me to assist in this small way.” 

Part of Bilbo wanted to turn him away. He wanted as little to do with Thorin as possible, to be honest; the memory of his fury and what it had done to Bilbo’s life was still strong in him. But his leg ached damnably, and there was no telling how much longer he might have to limp through endless miles of twisting stone corridor. He put his arm gingerly on top of Thorin’s, and gradually eased as much weight onto it as possible. It didn’t take the pain away, but Bilbo still breathed a sigh of relief. Between his cane and Thorin’s support, he no longer had to put much weight on the leg at all. 

He could not have guessed how long they walked. Time seemed to move strangely deep down below the earth. All he could say for certain was that he was heartily sick of stone walls, and the feeling of being enclosed. When they stopped, it was outside the first proper door that Bilbo had seen below ground. Dis and Frerin each took out a key and fitted them to the two different keyholes, turning them at the same time, in a ceremony that they had clearly practiced many times before. 

“This,” Frerin said with delight, “is our best work.” He pushed the door wide, and they followed Dis inside, to the most magnificent sight Bilbo had ever seen. 

It sat in the middle of a huge, echoing room that looked like it had once been a well-appointed great hall of some Dwarven kingdom. Great pillars ran from floor to ceiling, and even in the gloom, Bilbo could see intricate carvings of stone and metal on the walls and the roof of the hall. The object they had come to see was a - well, a contraption of some sort was the best description Bilbo could come up with at first glance. It was larger than some of the small ships that he had seen, and far larger than the wagon that had brought him from the Shire to Erelin. It was constructed from a bewildering array of materials, so that he could not say what it was made of properly. Roughly speaking, it was shaped like a fat cigar with rounded ends.

“What is it?” Bofur asked, as gobsmacked as Bilbo felt.

“Airship,” Dis said proudly, reaching out to tweak something on the surface back into place. “Dirigible, if you like.” 

“We haven’t named it yet.” Frerin said, shaking his head solemnly. “Dis doesn’t like any of my ideas.”

She ignored him and went on. “It should be able to get us above the city, and hopefully over the wall, but it’s not built for distances.”

“How d’you get it out of here?” Dwalin asked, sounding impressed despite himself. “Not going to do us much good underground, is it?”

“Blow things up, of course!” Frerin declared, happy once again. “We’ve rigged the roof here to blow out when we need it. There’s actually only a very thin layer of rock above us here. We’ll have a clear shot.” 

“It’s not finished yet. Two, three more days,” Dis said briskly. She gave the contraption a gentle pat, and nodded at them. “Can you get your people together in time?”

“You can’t fit the whole city in this thing!” Bilbo protested. “It would take dozens of trips to evacuate all of the living, even if the plague keeps moving fast.”

“We’re not going to do that,” Dis said, glancing over at Frerin. He raised a wild-looking eyebrow, and smiled dangerously.

“In here, we can’t get close to the walls or gates. Too well-defended, to keep us in. But from the outside, we can blow them sky-high!” He laughed then, a wild dancing thing, and Bilbo thought that this Dwarf would burn down the world just to see the flames flicker. 

“And then what?” Dwalin asked gloomily. “Blow up the walls, and then? The Men will still have a sword at our throats, and we will still have nowhere to go.”

“We go home.” Balin’s voice was more certain than Bilbo had heard it before. He looked over at the old watchmaker. Balin straightened up, neatening his beard, and adjusted his spectacles a little. “To Erebor.”

“No.” Thorin might have been made of stone, for all the feeling in his voice. “I will not go to that place again. A thousand years, I have led you to torment and death for that mountain, and I will not do it again.”

Balin looked up sharply, and pressed his lips together in clear deliberation. With steady steps, he made his way to Thorin, and gently reached up to grasp Thorin’s face between both of his hands, urging him to bend a little until they were nearly face to face. “Oh lad,” Balin said quietly, shaking his head. “I have failed you before now. Though I cannot remember all things, I know I am guilty in this. I saw you stumble and lose your way, and I did not steer you back on your path. I allowed you to be a King to me, when it was an advisor you most needed.” He shook his head and closed his eyes in sorrow. “I chose to be blind to your fall, because I was tired. Now, I am both weary and blind in body, but I am finally seeing clearly.” He moved his hands to Thorin’s shoulders and squeezed gently. “You must do this thing, Thorin. You must lead us now - back to Erebor. It is the only hope left for your people.”

“It has brought us nothing but death and despair!” Thorin whispered, in a harsh tone that carried through the cavern. “I have watched the torment it brought upon all of you - my kin, my loyal hearts! How can you advise this path, Balin? Five times, I have thought I could retake Erebor and make it a home again, and five times, I have seen nothing but failure!”

“So let us help you, laddie! Don’t take it all on yourself.” Balin shook his head, and removed his glasses, smiling at Thorin with such gentleness that Bilbo felt his heart clench a little. “We are grown old now, Thorin, and so is this world. We are at the end of all hope, unless you will give it to us one last time.”

Thorin looked up and glanced around their little group. Dwalin’s arms were crossed, and he dipped his head in something like a bow of assent. Bofur sighed deeply and reached out to touch the stone beside him, tracing reverent fingers over the surface of the stone. 

“We are not abandoned,” he said formally - and then smiled, crooked and kind, and bent down to pick up a stone. He took it over to Thorin and placed it in his right hand, clasping his own over it. “He who made the stones and made the Dwarves will not leave us to die here. We will follow you in the shadow of the Maker’s hammer.”

Thorin was beginning to look a little more than overwhelmed, and Bilbo blinked in surprise as the Dwarf looked over to him just as he had his other advisors, looking for his input. Bilbo shrugged, feeling rather absurd at being included in such an important counsel, and cleared his throat. 

“I will do what I can to help you escape,” he said stiffly. “I said I would show you the green things of the world, and so I shall. If we can escape from the city and make a way for the people to leave, I will come with you as far as the Shire. My mission as Healer of Erelin will be completed.” He shuffled his feet, aware of the absurdity of himself, there in that Dwarven place. “I don’t know how much help I can give, but you shall have what I can offer.”

Thorin stared at him intently for a long while - and Bilbo was not certain whether he was evaluating the Hobbit who stood in front of him, or comparing him to the memory he had of the Bilbo who had traveled with him a thousand years before. It was an uncomfortable scrutiny, in either case. Finally, he looked away, and nodded tersely.

“I did not think to hope again,” he said, voice low and rough. “I fear to see hopes dashed a final time. I fear I will be the same Dwarf I have been for a thousand years, and you will all regret following me, once again.” He looked over to Dis and Frerin now, and bowed his head deeply to them. “If you will grant me a stay of execution, we may yet find a way forward.

“Through fire and foe?” Frerin grinned. “You will always find me willing!”

Dis glared at him coldly. “You cannot repair the damage you have done, Thorin.”

“I cannot,” he agreed. He went to her then, dropping to one knee and taking one of her hands, pressing his forehead against it. “Little sister, I have done great harm, in this life and in others. But I tell you this.” He looked up at her, eyes glimmering in the dim light. “Everything I did, I did for them. For your sons. For a thousand years, I have loved them as my own children, and I have buried them too many times. You will see, when you remember the lives of your own past. I could not do it again, and I thought to prevent their deaths this last time.”

She looked down on him impassively, but did not pull away. “My brother, you have done us a great wrong, and I will not forgive it so easily. I do not wish to hear of the death of my children, and I will not assent to these memories.” She took her hand away, but without any violence, and after a moment’s hesitation, she placed it atop his head. “I will not live in the past, Thorin, and neither should you. Get up, my brother, and walk forward - into hope or despair or whatever else you may find. It is better than remaining here, mired in the filth of Erelin.”

There was a bright flare of something in Thorin’s face as he stood again, and it seemed to change his entire visage. He looked younger, somehow, and taller, if that were possible. He nodded to her, and at the others, and suddenly Bilbo saw him again, for the first time.

Dark hair, streaked with silver, and piercing blue eyes that burned like dragonfire. He found himself smiling stupidly for an instant, and raised a hand to hide the evidence - but inside, something very much like hope, or something greener, was beginning to kindle.

After a long moment, Dwalin cleared his throat gruffly, and the spell was broken. Bofur rubbed his hands together, looking impossibly eager. 

“Right. So the plan is that we finish building an airship that will very likely crash and kill us all, and use it to sneak out of this heavily-guarded prison city. Then, we blow up the walls, let the surviving Dwarves leave to escape the plague, and march off on yet another attempt at a quest that’s killed us all at least five times, all under the eyes of Men who’d not much mind seeing us all dead?” He tugged at the earflaps of his awful hat, fixing it more firmly in place. “I do hope the Maker hasn’t got his eyes on any other major projects right now. We’ll need all the help we can get!”

“We also need to gather the rest of our company,” Thorin added. “I will not leave them behind, if they still live. We’re looking for a Dwarf named Nori, likely to be found either committing petty theft or under arrest for having done so. We’ll also need to locate Gloin, brother to Oin.” He nodded to Frerin and Dis. “Any information or assistance the Underground can provide would be most welcome.” 

“That’s simple enough,” Frerin offered. “We do that sort of thing all the time. We’ll have them waiting for you by the time the ship is ready to go.”

“How many in this Company of yours?” Dis asked briskly, beginning to scrawl incomprehensible numbers and symbols on a flat section of cavern with a soft white rock. 

“There were fourteen all told, with Master Baggins,” Thorin said quietly, sounding almost wistful. “Many times since, our numbers have been smaller.”

“Fourteen, plus Frerin and me,” Dis muttered, moving numbers and calculating faster than Bilbo could even keep up with, let alone comprehend. “Should be fine, even if you do find them all.” 

Bilbo snuck closer to Thorin so that he could whisper inconspicuously, “Bombur, too? He’s one of us, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” Thorin murmured. “And Bifur, to complete the Company. Have you begin to remember, then?”

“Hints and snatches,” Bilbo admitted.

“It will come in time,” Thorin said glumly. “And then you may find yourself even less willing to follow me, Master Baggins.”

“Let’s just take that as it comes, shall we?” Bilbo smiled a little - such a strange thing, to be smiling at Thorin Oakenshield! - and wandered away again, moving to get a better look at the airship that would hopefully carry them away from Erelin.

There came a sound from out in the corridor - conversation and footfalls - and the rest of their little band followed Bifur into the room, and then stopped just inside the entrance, looking at the erstwhile airship in confusion. 

“Ah!” Balin said cheerfully. “Let us introduce the rest of our number! These are Dori and Ori, brothers of Nori, and this excellent fellow is Oin, whose brother Gloin we are seeking.” He chuckled a little. “Not long now until we’re all reunited with lost brothers, I think!”

“And these,” Thorin said formally, gently pushing his way toward the back of the pack and then shepherding them forward, “are Fili and Kili.” He still looked on Kili with more than a little uncertainty, but there was none now to be heard in his voice. He pushed them forward until they stood right before Dis and Frerin. Dis had gone still as carven stone, until she did not even seem to still be breathing, and Frerin whistled low and long in surprise. “My sister-sons.”

Dis’ hand flew to her mouth, though she made no noise, and she did not blink, but looked them over carefully. Kili shrunk back under the scrutiny, making himself smaller and hiding behind his brother as much as he could. He looked more frightened than curious - but Fili was all wonderment, staring at Dis with his mouth open.

“You,” he said quietly. “You are my mother, are you not?”

She gave a little muffled sob at that, but the smile that spread across her features was brilliant, even in the gloom. She nodded, a fast, jerky motion.

“I am, love,” she whispered. “I did not think you would remember me. You were so young when they took you from me!” 

“I remembered that you were beautiful,” Fili whispered. As if in a trance, he moved forward toward her, and she grabbed him at once, clinging on with such obvious relief that it nearly hurt to watch. She spoke to him in an indistinguishable whisper in his ear, and when they finally broke apart, tears were shining on both faces. 

“Oh, my Fili,” she said with a little laugh, pulling back enough to look on his face and push back some of the braids that had swung in front of his face. “You’ve grown so tall!” He laughed at that, and then stepped back far enough to reach for Kili’s sleeve, pulling at his brother. Kili did not move.

“I went looking for him, mama,” Fili said eagerly - a child, pleading for a parents’ approval, Bilbo thought absently. “I didn’t even remember I had a brother, but I knew he was missing.” He looked back and forth between them - but Kili and Dis were both standing still. Kili looked as though he would sink through the stone floor if he could, and Dis - Bilbo found he could not read her expression at all. Sometimes, even to him, Dwarves were still mysterious folk. “It’s Kili, mama!” Fili explained.

“I know, love,” she whispered. She took a careful step forward, then another, and then stopped as he tensed as if ready to flee. She put out a hand to him, which seemed to freeze him in place. “Hello, Kili.”

He looked over to Bilbo, who was surprised to see near-panic on his face. It was the way the lad had used to react to everyone - the frightened reaction of a whipped puppy, rather than the strength and certainty that had started to grow in him again. Dis stepped forward again, and Bilbo moved forward on silent Hobbit-feet to stand behind Kili, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. The lad’s muscles were all tense. After a frozen moment, Kili managed to execute a quick, awkward sailor’s bow toward her, though he remained silent. 

“I would have known you at a moment,” she said quietly. She closed the gap another step, and then she was close enough to reach a gentle hand out to cup his cheek, barely touching his skin. “Oh, my baby. I never thought to see you again.”

Kili shook his head a fraction, not taking his eyes off her. He came up only to her shoulder, and as Bilbo glanced around at the stocky forms of the other Dwarves, he wondered what her mothers’ eyes were seeing in her son - this skinny, frightened figure of a boy who hardly looked like a Dwarf at all. “I’m not,” he said quietly. “I’m no-one’s baby.” 

“You are, my Kili,” she said firmly - and, putting both hands on his face, she brought her forehead down to press against his own. “And so you shall be until the breaking of the world, no matter how tall you grow.” After a moment, she pulled away, and smiled down at him and at Fili with such a breathtaking tenderness that Bilbo’s heart caught in his throat. 

Kili’s eyebrows drew together in clear confusion, and Bilbo was reminded that the lad had precious little experience with family sentiments in his life so far - but then he shook his head a little, and looked at her directly.

“You thought I was reckless,” he murmured. The faraway look in his eyes was one that Bilbo was becoming quite familiar with, as the Dwarves fought to regain their memories of the lives they had once lived. Bilbo blinked a little at that, because it was so completely opposite of what he knew of Kili to date. Part of him knew it had once been true - that the young brothers had been life and joy made flesh - but the Kili he had found in this world was cautious and remote, watching the world from behind too-old eyes. Dis shrugged a shoulder - exactly the same way that Fili did, Bilbo realised with faint delight - and shook her head. 

“I don’t know about that, love. All I know is what’s in front of me here and now - and that is my sons, grown strong and good even without me.” With a swift suddenness, she leaned in to press a kiss to each of their foreheads, and even Kili did not pull away. “And now, my sons, are you ready to help your poor old mother? We’ve rather a lot to get done, and little time.”

“Of course!” Fili agreed at once. When Kili stayed quiet, Fili nudged him hard in the ribs.

“I would help,” he said, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor. “But I haven’t a clue how to do Dwarven work. All I know is the ships of Men.”

“And that is precisely what we need,” Frerin said, stepping forward with no trace out caution or reverence, and reaching out huge hands to ruffle both boys’ hair. Kili froze again, but did not protest the gesture. “Nephew mine, you’ve got a bit to teach us, I’m afraid. We’re trying to rig our airship to give us a maximum amount of control in the air, when we will have no contact with the earth. I’ve devised sails of a sort to catch the wind, but I can’t work out how to work them.”

Kili brightened at that, straightening up and shaking the hair out of his face. “Can I see?” 

“Please!” Frerin gestured forward, and waited until both of the lads were moving (with a bit more than their customary speed, Bilbo noted, very glad to see some evidence of the natural curiosity of the young in them) before following them, with a broad wink to Dis as he sauntered off. 

She turned to Bilbo, then, with a quizzical look. “And who are you to my sons, Master Healer, that they look at you with such trust?”

Bilbo shrugged, suddenly hot under the collar. “No-one. Fili came to my door because it was the only one open, and Kili trusts me little more than anyone else.” 

Her eyes flashed, and she folded her arms in a way that put him firmly in mind of Dwalin in his worst moods. “You underestimate your standing with them. If my sons have chosen to put their trust in you, Hobbit, I trust that you will not disappoint them?”

“I will do my utmost,” Bilbo promised, with nothing short of sincerity. It warmed him a bit, somewhere buried down deep, that she thought they looked to him. He was no figure to be followed or emulated, but it did seem to him that he might at least steer them away from some of their fellow Dwarves’ less salubrious habits, if given the opportunity. 

“See that you do,” she said quietly. Stepping closer, she bent down until her face was on a level with his own. “I do not think Frerin and I will be with you on this journey. We must look to Erelin, while you and the Company move to secure Erebor for us.” Reaching up into her dark hair, she pulled out an elaborate silver bead and pressed it into his hand. “Look after my children, Master Healer. I charge you.”

Bilbo took it gingerly from her and tucked it into one of his waistcoat pockets with great care, patting the fabric back into place with nervous fingers. “As best I can, while I remain with the Company.” It would have to be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Umm. So. I planned all along for this to be completely gen, no pairings whatsoever. That's...not going so well for me. In a story where everything else is behaving in a most lovely and civilised fashion, it would seem that Bilbo and Thorin are determined that Bagginshield should be happening. I may be fighting a losing battle here. I shall keep you updated. 
> 
> Anyway, that aside, THANK YOU guys so much for reading! Seriously, I got all weepy over your lovely comments! I'm completely the worst, keeping you waiting for so long, and the fact that you're still interested in this story after such a long hiatus is astounding, really. I fully intend to keep pressing on with this one as quickly as possible - call it post-BoFA therapy if you will. My sincere and delighted thanks - I adore you all!


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